Southern  Branch 
of  the 

University  of  California 

Los  Angeles 


Form  L  1 


159 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  bel 


ow 


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FEB  9    1976 


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\ 


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fi\t 


THE. 

Mother-A 

rtist 

BY 

JANE  DEARBORN 

MILLS 

(Mrs.  James  E.  Mills) 

Introduction  by 

HANNAH  KENT  SCHOFF 

President,  National  Congress  of  Mothers 


/3^/^ 


THE    PALMER    COMPANY 

M  D  C  C  C  C  I  V 


/  3  6^)3 


copyright,  1904 
by  Jane  Dearborn  Mills 


PRESS    OF    FfiANK    WOOD 
BOSTON,   Mass. 


^  HCi 


^A 


The  Mother-Artist 

Introduction 

WOMAN'S  opportunities  and  work, 
which  have  been  for  centuries  almost 
entirely  confined  to  the  home  and  to 
its  duties,  have  so  broadened  and  widened 
during  the  last  fifty  years  that  she  has  not  yet 
adjusted  herself  to  the  change  ;  and  with  en- 
joyment of  the  new  fields  open  to  her,  per- 
haps for  a  time  the  world-old  duties  of  wife 
*^  and  mother  have  seemed  less  of  a  career  than 
^    formerly. 

The  pendulum  has  swung  far  in  the  other 
direction ;  and  with  nearly  every  door  open, 
the  thoughtful  woman  realizes  that  still  in  the 
God-given  place  of  wife  and  mother  she  may 
find  her  deepest  happiness  and  her  broadest, 
highest  use. 

The 


] 


S 


The    J^  other- Artist 

The  Heavenly  Father  gave  her  that  place, 
and  in  so  doing  He  crowned  her  life  with  a 
richness  and  a  fullness  that  nothing  else  can 
give. 

Why  then  has  He  opened  every  door  to 
her  outside  of  home?  Is  it  not  that  she  may 
bring  to  her  own  special  work  a  breadth  of 
view,  an  unselfish  love,  and  a  conception  of 
its  relation  to  the  world-life  ? 

Has  she  not  gone  out  into  the  world  to 
realize  the  more  fully  the  needs  of  His  chil- 
dren^ and  the  place  they  should  be  fitted  to 
occupy  in  the  wider  relationships  of  life  ? 
How  could  she  fit  them  for  duties  of  which 
she  had  no  conception  ? 

Has  not  the  journey'ing  into  new  fields 
taught  her  that  true,  broad  mother-love  is 
needed  in  the  world-life,  and  that  it  must  take 
within  its  care  the  childhood  of  the  world  ? 

Woman,  enriched  and  broadened  by  the 
wider  opportunities,  must  bring  back  to  the 
home  the  fruits  of  her  gathering  abroad. 

More  intelligently,  more  perfectly,  must 
she  fill  that  God-given  sphere  of  wife  and 

mother. 


[ii 


The    N other- Artist 

mother,  which  is  still  the  highest  of  all.  In 
the  home  and  in  the  nation  the  mother-work 
is  needed.  We  have  tampered  long  with  the 
sacred  trust  that  is  ours  in  shaping  and  guid- 
ing the  little  ones. 

The  nurture  of  the  race  is  in  the  mother's 
hands — for  time  and  for  eternity.  She  gives 
the  ideals  of  life  to  the  men  and  women  of 
the  future.  Can  there  be  a  higher  trust,  a 
graver  responsibility,  given  to  a  human  being? 

May  this  little  book  suggest  to  its  readers 
the  beautiful  vision  of  physical  and  spiritual 
beauty  which  the  Divine  Artist  would  have 
as  a  guide  to  the  Mother  and  Father  Artists, 
who  are  His  earthly  helpers  in  the  care  of 
His  children. 

Hannah  Kent  Schoff, 

President  of  the  National  Congress  of  Mothers. 


Ill 


] 


The  Mother-Artist 

Prelude 

THERE  has  grown  up  in  modern  days 
a  pitying  spirit  toward  the  mother, 
carrying  with  it  an  idea  of  martyrdom, 
and  that  almost  unendurable  if  the  number 
of  the  children  is  greater  than  three.  It  is 
an  exceedingly  unhealthy  notion  for  mothers 
actual  and  possible,  and  for  all  the  world 
besides.  It  is  a  discounting  of  the  dignity  of 
motherhood,  for  it  looks  upon  its  duties  as  if 
they  were  the  unintelligent  drudgery  of  the 
slave. 

This  little  book  is  a  suggestion  of  the  rich- 
ness of  growth  possible  in  the  mother's  life. 
No  element  of  character  is  left  unexercised  in 
the  doing  of  a  mother's  duties.  Her  love- 
nature  is  fully  aroused;  her  intellect  may  be, 

and 


^] 


The    Mother- Artist 

and  actively  so,  if  she  will  follow  where  the 
children  lead  with  their  wise  little  questions 
and  answer  them  as  truly  as  she  can ;  and 
her  character  may  grow  more  wholly  rounded 
into  beautiful  relative  proportions,  each  part 
to  each,  in  this  work  and  atmosphere  than 
is  possible  to  it  in  any  other  condition.  The 
drudgery  is  only  that  which  any  artist  finds 
connected  with  his  work. 

This,  first  of  all,  is  what  the  little  book 
has  to  say. 

Second  to  that  great  truth  are  hints  of 
the  kind  of  training  best  calculated  to 
hold  children  in  normal  states  of  growth 
in  those  years  when  they  must  be  guided, 
in  large  measure,  by  the  mother  and  the 
father.  And  another  thought  is  here 
brought  in,  which,  though  seemingly 
minor,  is  not  less  in  value  than  the  main 
idea.  This  is  the  place  that  rightly  belongs 
to  the  father  in  the  rearing  of  the  children. 
Our  modern  views  hold  too  much  to  the 
notion  that  mothers  are  alone  in  giving 
children's  training  due  consideration.     The 

fact 


[ 


VI 


The   Nother- Artist 

fact  is,  that  women  in  their  absorbing  zeal, 
and  with  the  same  tendency,  being  human, 
that  men  have  to  assume  superiority  when 
the  occasion  offers,  fail  many  times  to  recog- 
nize the  man's  true  wisdom.  The  wife,  con- 
sequently, occupies  all  the  ground,  not  only 
hers,  but  his,  so  that  if  he  would  he  cannot 
come  into  the  nearness  to  the  children  neces- 
sary to  do  for  them  what  he  might,  and 
worse  than  that  even,  she  prevents  and  dis- 
courages in  him  the  conscious  growing  of 
his  fatherhood ;  for  a  man  can  be  discour- 
aged as  easily  as  a  woman,  and  the  one  who 
can  most  perfectly  accomplish  his  discour- 
agement is  his  wife. 

Because  a  man  sees  general  laws  and  less 
of  detail  than  a  woman,  many  an  ardently 
devoted  mother  thrusts  aside  as  of  no  value 
the  father's  opinion  which  happens  to  differ 
from  her  own,  with  never  a  thought  of  try- 
ing to  find  if  there  may  not  be  something  of 
wisdom  in  it,  and  if  by  modifying  both  his 
and  hers  a  new  one  might  not  be  formed, 
stronger  and   truer  than   either   his   or  hers 

alone 

vii  ] 


The     Tlother- Artist 

alone  can  be.  This  is  loss  of  marriage  in 
the  rearing  of  the  children,  and  loss  of 
highest  parenthood  to  the  sons  and  daugh 
ters.  And  it  is  more ;  for  her  appreciation 
of  his  thought  would  arouse  in  him,  if  he 
has  them  not  strongly  already,  desire  and 
purpose  to  train  himself  in  fatherhood  as 
she  is  striving  to  teach  herself  true  moth 
erhood. 

This  little  book  here  offered  to  the  world 
touches  upon  these  most  vital  ideas.  It  is 
only  a  word  ;  but  one  word,  if  it  happen  to 
be  the  right,  is  better  than  ten  thousand. 


[viii 


The  Mother-Artist 

I.     Love 

From  Gilt  the  child's  clear  eyes  his  angel  pleads 
For  the  companiotiship  of  you  and  me 


\ 


The  Mother-Artist 

I.    Love 

IT  never  has  occurred  to  human  nature 
to  take  the  best  of  its  best  things  in 
earnest, — Peace,  and  Marriage,  and  Home- 
making,  and  Motherhood.  In  olden  times 
it  frankly  cast  them  out  and  trod  them 
under  foot.  Then  it  thought,  one  day, 
how  fine  would  be  the  mingling  of  pretty 
talk  with  its  real  estimate  of  them.  It 
tried  it  and  Hked  it  and  has  kept  on,  even 
down  to  now.  So  the  vocabulary  is  a  queer 
mixture.  The  messenger  from  Mars  must 
find  it  puzzling  to  make  connection  between 
Hosannas  for  "  Peace  on  earth "  and 
Hurrahs  for  war  among  men,  all  in  the 
selfsame  breath.  He  must  turn  dizzy  at 
the    sight    of  "  holy    marriage "    as    a    butt 

for 


3] 


\ 


The    Tlother- Artist 

for  jokes  in  funny  papers  and  conversation. 
He  must  be  curious  to  know  why  a  mother 
is  a  queen  and  a  slave ;  and  all  these  med- 
leys he  may  well  take  back  to  his  Martian 
children  to  show  them  what  queer  minds 
the  folks  have  on  the  planet  they  call 
Earth. 

There  was  a  weekly  paper  once — perhaps 
it  does  not  any  more  exist — that  had  for 
reason  of  its  being,  the  exaltation  of  the 
making  of  the  home,  the  giving  inspiration 
to  the  mothers ;  and  this  is  what  it  gave : 
"  Sometimes  we  (mothers)  may  think  that  if 
we  had  time  for  them,  we  have  duties,  too, 
to  the  outside  world,  which  we  are  as  well 
fitted  to  perform  as  others.  But  ....  we 
are  doing  woman's  noblest  and  highest  duty 
before  dish-pan  and  bread-board  and  cradle. 
I  know  the  daily  round  often  seems  monoto- 
nous, the  care  of  children  is  very  wearying 
....  but  pray  for  grace  and  strength. 
//  is  but  for  a  day.  There  will  be  many 
years  ....  when  your  house  will  be 
quiet    and    orderly  .   .   .  Take     heart,    dear 

mothers  ; 


[4 


The     Tlother- Artist 

mothers ;  this  is  the  noblest  and  highest 
(duty)  you  can  ever  do.  " 

What  curious  inspiration  !  The  certainty 
that  the  children  soon  will  be  no  more ! 
"  Qiiiet,  orderly  "  rows  of  dead  furniture  to 
"repay"  the  mother  for  the  priceless  pos- 
session of  child-life !  A  curious  reward 
for  what  one  would  fancy  as  containing 
within  itself  the  seeds  of  its  own  recom- 
pense !  And  this  is  the  "  consolation " 
most  commonly  offered  to  the  mothers, 
which  is   the   most  curious  of  all. 

How  does  the  world  not  know  that  pity 
debases  motherhood  ?  Did  Pericles  need 
consolation  for  making  Athens  the  glory 
of  the  world  ?  Did  Michael  Angelo  need 
to  be  consoled  for  lying  two  years  upon 
his  back  on  a  scaffolding  while  painting 
the  ceiling  of  the  Sistiine  Chapel  ?  Did 
Raphael  want  consolation  for  the  labor 
which  produced  his  divine  Madonna? 
Biography  does  not  pity  these  men.  It 
counts  their  toil  as  only  so  much  added  to 
their  glory.     Can    the   artist    compare  with 

the 


5] 


The     Mother  -  Artist 

the  mother  in  richness  of  the  material 
worked  upon,  in  possibihties  for  what  may 
be  wrought,  in  never  ceasing  exercise  of  all 
best  human  powers,  in  the  companionship 
with  what  is  pure,  and  deep,  and  high,  and 
true?  Why  this  morbid  pity  for  her?  It 
is  because  there  is  no  serious  belief  in 
Motherhood,  as  there  is  none  in  Peace, 
and  none  in  Marriage.  "  Hurrah  for 
war!"  they  cry.  "Is  marriage  a  fail- 
ure?" they  ask.  The  world  glorifies  war, 
jokes  about  marriage,  or  depreciates  it, 
and  talks  of  motherhood  as  if  it  were  a 
form   ot  slavery. 

Come,  little  mother,  with  the  five  sweet, 
bright-eyed  children,  let  us  think  awhile 
about  the  matter.  Your  life  has  some- 
times seemed  monotonous  and  hard-  to 
you ;  for,  though  a  woman  be  a  queen,  if 
all  the  world  is  telling  her  she  is  a  slave,  she 
more  than  half  believes  the  tale  herself. 
Then  the  conditions  of  her  sovereignty  seem 
like  chains  upon  her.     She  loses  sight  of  her 

great  glory  and  mourns  the  limitations  of  her 

queenship. 


[6 


The     Tiother- Artist 

queenship.  For  there  is  no  place  on  the 
earth  so  high  it  does  not  hold  one  in 
some  bond  of  law ;  and  queens  are  no  more 
free  from  irksome  duties  than  are  others. 

In  the  rich  hfe  you  lead  among  your  child- 
ren, surely  your  resources  from  weariness 
are  more  than  those  of  Michael  Angelo  upon 
his  board.  The  growing  human  souls  are 
more  inspiring  than  lifeless  forms  created  out 
of  paint;  and  this  is  not  disparagement  of 
man's  beautiful  handiwork,  but  only  apprecia- 
tion of  that  greatest  art  wrought  by  the  hand 
of  the  Master  of  the  masters. 

Do  you  know  that  little  gem  of  Kiphng's, 
"  The  Story  of  Muhammad  Din  "  ?  Only 
a  tiny  Indian  boy, — the  child  of  a  ser- 
vant,— his  little  white  shirt  "  ridiculously  in- 
adequate," a  few  bits  of  broken  crockery, 
some  thrown-away  flowers,  a  garden,  a  white 
man  and  a  horse, — these  are  the  dramatis 
personae  and  stage  effects,  and  the  story 
covers  but  four  short  pages.  It  tells  how 
the  big  man  let  the  child  play  in  the  big 
man's  garden  with  these  cast-off  things,  and 

of 


7] 


The     Hother-  Artist 

of  the   baby's  grateful  love,  unconscious  of 

himself,  and    beautiful.     The    love   was    no 

less  genuine   because    the   words   were  few. 

For,    "  our  conversation,"   says    the   author, 

"  was  confined  to  *  Talaam,  Tahib,'  from   his 

side,  and  '  Salaam,   Muhammad   Din,'   from 

mine."      But  he  adds,  "  Daily,  on  my  return 

from  the  office,  the  little  white  shirt  and  the 

fat  little  body  used  to  rise  from  the  shade  of 

the   creeper-covered   trellis    where   they  had 

been   hid ;    and  daily,   I    checked    my  horse 

here,  that  my  salutation  might  not  be  slurred 

over    or   given    unseemly."     Has  literature 

ever  pictured  a  more  exquisite  tenderness   of 

companionship  ? 

'•'■  The  same  kind  of  companionship,  open 

down  to  deeps  not  possible  to  this  man  and 

child,    is    offered    to   every    mother.       The 

opportunities  for  it  in  the  daily  incidents  are 

always  at   her  hand.     You   remember  when 

Donald,  your  eldest,  your  clear-eyed  boy  of 

sixteen  now,  was  just  beyond  his  baby  years, 

and  you  were  suffering  with  a  cold  one  day. 

How  plainly  it  comes  back  again  before  your 

memory. 
*The  two  incidents  following  are  facts  from  life. 

[8 


The    Mother-  Artist 

memory.  You  are  lying  on  your  bed  with 
swollen  eyes  and  nose,  and  aching  body. 
Donald  soon  comes  to  keep  you  company. 
He  has  the  baby  confidence  in  being  always 
welcome,  which  drives  away  your  momentary 
wish  to  stay  alone  ;  the  angel  in  it  is  a  nobler 
healer  than  solitude  could  be.  In  Donald's 
arms  are  what  he  calls  "  the  tools  "  :  some 
wooden  pieces,  a  hammer,  and  some  tacks. 
He  lays  them  on  the  floor  and  climbs  up  on 
the  bed  and  leans  upon  his  hands  and  knees 
and  looks  at  you.  You  close  your  eyes,  and 
in  another  moment  a  little  finger  feels  its  way 
along  your  nose. 

"  Your  nose  is  '  dust '  as  red,  mamma,"  he 
says,  in  that  rising  tone  which  gives  the  rar- 
est sweetness  to  his  voice. 

"  Yes,  dear,  mamma  has  a  cold.  Did  you 
bring  the  tools?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I'm  going  to  build  a  wagon," 
scrambling  down  and  beginning  to  work 
busily. 

"  How  ?  "  you  feebly  ask. 

Donald  is  abundantly  amused  if  he   can 

think 


9] 


The     N o  ther- Artist 

think  of  anything  to  say.  His  answer  to 
your  simple  question  keeps  him  happy  for 
the  next  ten  minutes.  Then  a  few  more 
words  from  you  supply  him  with  further  op- 
portunity. Soon  he  begs  you  to  admire 
**  the  wagon."  You  pull  together  all  the 
strength  you  have  into  an  expression  of  ad- 
miration ;  and  when  your  eyes  are  closed 
again,  they  have  before  them  a  vision  of  the 
beaming  happiness  awakened  by  your  words 
of  praise. 

Presently  you  hear,  "  Mamma,  Fm  going 
down  for  another  piece.  I'll  come  back" ; 
and  he  goes  out,  shutting  the  door  after  him. 
Then,  evidently  remembering  that  he  heard 
you  say  once  to  his  father  that  you  loved  to 
hear  his  little  feet  upon  the  stairs,  he  opens 
wide  the  door,  pushing  it  wholly  back,  smil- 
ing and  explaining,  "  I'm  coming  back, 
mamma,  and  I'll  leave  the  door  open  so  you 
can  hear  my  feet  coming."  His  joy  in  an- 
swering in  certainty  to  your  love  for  him  beams 
in  his  face  and  sounds  in  every  tone.  You 
lie  there  smiling,  with  no  care  for  aching  eyes 

and 


[■ 


The    N  other-  Artist 

and  limbs,  and  undone  tasks.  You  know 
now  that  they  cannot  injure  you  or  others ; 
because  your  baby  has  revealed  to  you  the 
gladness  of  "becoming  as  little  children," — 
the  companionship  there  will  be  in  it  with 
the  Father,  even  like  what  the  trusting  of 
your  little  child  has  brought  to  you  and  him. 

Another  day  Donald  is  in  your  room. 
"  Donald,"  you  say,  "  I'm  going  downstairs 
to  speak  to  Mary ;  come." 

"  No,  mamma,"  he  says,  "  I  can  wait  for 
)''ou  here." 

But  you  fear  that  he  may  play  with  the 
open  fire,  and  you  say,  "  Oh,  Donald,  won't 
you  come?  It  is  so  much  nicer  to  do  things 
together." 

Either  the  words  or  the  tone  appeal  to 
him  strongly,  for  turning  with  glowing  look, 
he  runs  to  you  and  clasps  you  round  and 
hides  his  face  in  your  gown.  Then  the  little 
hand  is  close  in  yours,  and  the  little  feet 
patter  contented  by  your  side.  Your  heart 
fills  with  happiness.  The  Father's  love 
flows  new  into  your  soul  with  overwhelming 
power.     The  joy  is  unspeakable. 


The  Mother-Artist 

II.     Intellect  x^ 

"  Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools  " 
—  The  Barefoot  Boy 


The  Mother-Artist 

II.    Intellect 

ALL  this  you  remember,  and  it  was  beau- 
tiful; but  it  was  baby  life.  It  was  the 
emotional,  and  priceless  in  its  power. 
Such  moments  must  be  rare,  however,  else 
they  grow  sentimental.  And  you  are  crav- 
ing intellectual  life,  that  it  may  give  the  emo- 
tions healthfulness  ?  No,  little  mother,  it  is 
the  intellectual  pastime  that  you  crave;  the 
life,  you  have  been  having  constantly.  Why, 
you  began  it  with  the  birth  of  Donald. 
When  he  had  lived  a  few  short  hours  only 
you  saw  him  put  his  tiny  hand  beneath  his 
cheek  as  he  lay  sleeping,  and  you  wondered, 
with  the  little  strength  you  had,  what  im- 
pulse made  him  do  it.  During  his  first  two 
years  you  studied  hygienically  and  physiolog- 
ically and  psychologically  his  every  sign  of 

growth 

'5] 


The    ?I other- Artist 

growth.  As  soon  as  he  could  talk  your  col- 
lege training  was  brought  into  use.  Your 
every  intellectual  power  was  fiilly  tested 
now ;  for  you  were  a  true  mother  and  would 
not  give  false  or  careless  answers  to  your 
boy.  You  did  not  tell  him  that  he  must  not 
question,  or  say  that  you  were  too  tired  to 
answer,  implying  that  you  always  would  be 
so.  You  roused  your  every  intellectual  fac- 
ulty, as  it  v/as  called  upon,  to  meet  his  needs. 
You  often  turned  to  the  "  big  books  "  to  help 
you  out.  These  were  the  boy's  delight ;  for 
you  taught  him  that  one  needs  always  the 
"  big  books,"  and  eagerly  he  waited  for  the 
day  when  he  should  use  them  too. 

What  a  review  it  was  of  all  you  knew  ! 
The  "  preliminaries "  were  only  the  begin- 
ning of  it — the  geography,  arithmetic  and 
grammar,  spelling  and  the  history  of  the 
United  States.  Indeed,  it  included  every 
other  branch  you  had  any  knowledge  of — 
general  history,  physics,  chemistry,  astron- 
omy, zoology,  botany,  mineralogy,  physical 
geography,  mythology,  biography,  literature 

of 

[i6 


The    Tiother-  Artist 

of  all  the  languages  you  knew,  physiology, 
anatomy,  hygiene,  politics,  and  religion ! 
Have  I  omitted  any?  Well,  you  reviewed 
those,  too.  And  the  course  in  English  was 
far  beyond  the  possibilities  of  any  college  to 
give.  The  careful  thinking  which  must  pre- 
cede the  words,  and  then  the  choosing  of  the 
words  themselves — for  they  must  be  simple 
and  comprehensive — and  the  re-adapting  day 
by  day  of  thought  and  language  to  the  grow- 
ing mind ;  where  can  the  equal  of  such  a 
course  be  found  in  any  hall  of  learning? 
Your  years  of  school  work  soon  proved  in- 
adequate to  meet  the  task  before  you.  How 
could  a  few  years  of  girlish  lore  suffice  for 
this  demand  upon  your  intellect?  You  were 
glad  you  had  it,  to  be  sure ;  for,  meager  as 
it  was,  it  was  invaluable.  It  saved  you  from 
confusion  at  the  start  by  furnishing  a  little 
store  of  knowledge.  It  was  diminutive,  how- 
ever, for  your  needs  ;  for  you  soon  found  that 
answers  to  his  questions  claimed  from  you  a 
study  limited  by  no  less  bounds  than  those 

which  keep  the  universe  in  place. 

When 


7] 


The    Tlother- Artist 

When  the  school  work  was  added  to  your 
own,  how  much  the  interest  grew !  Only 
you  were  anxious,  as  the  children  were,  about 
their  standing.  But  here  your  husband  took 
the  matter  up. 

"  Let  them  alone,"  he  said,  "  don't  worry 
yourself." 

"  I'm  afraid  they'll  be  careless,  if  they  don't 
see  my  interest." 

"  They'd  better  be  that  than  intellectual 
prigs." 

"  But,  Fred,  don't  you  want  them  to  be 
thorough  scholars  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  much  about  it." 

You  thought  immediately  of  the  traditional 
zest  of  mother-love  compared  with  that  of 
the  father.  You  had  been  fancying  that 
Fred  was  different  and  you  answered  frigidly, 
to  hide  the  disappointment,  "  I  don't  under- 
stand you." 

"  Because  I  want  them  to  be  human  be- 
ings, anyhow,  and  scholars  if  they  can." 

"  If  they're  faithful  to  school  work,  won't 
they  be  both?  " 

"  Not 

[.8 


The    Mother- Artist 

"  Not    necessarily." 

You  sighed  quite  audibly,  hoping  Fred 
would  hear;  but  finding  that  he  took  no  no- 
tice of  your  mood,  you  changed  the  subject. 
After  that  you  fervently  kept  on,  pathetically 
lonely  in  your  zeal,  avoiding,  when  it  was 
possible,  the  bringing  it  to  the  attention  of 
your  husband. 

But  one  day,  like  a  kitten  newly  born, 
your  eyes  were  opened.  Professor  C.  of 
the  university,  had  come  to  dinner.  Led 
by  him,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the 
limitations  and  defects  of  schools  under  the 
general  system.  He  argued  clearly  that  true 
education  would  have  no  care  in  it  for  rank 
among  one's  fellows.  "  Real  education,"  he 
went  on  to  say,  "  is  a  growth  in  one's  own 
powers."  Fred's  breadth  of  thought  sur- 
prised you  as  he  answered.  He  showed  ap- 
preciation of  the  deepening,  widening,  height- 
ening of  child  growth  which  you  had  missed 
in  fiissy  care  for  details.  You  had  shut  off 
your  understanding  of  him,  imagining  your 
own  superiority   of  mother-love.     You  had 

been 


9] 


The    J^ other- Artist 

been  narrowing  down  your  motherhood  and 
missing  much  of  wifehood. 

Fred  and  the  Professor  went  on  to  say  that 
education  is  not,  either  for  child  or  adult,  the 
doing  or  the  thinking  according  to  a  plan 
prescribed  by  another.  It  is  the  free  play  of 
the  faculties  in  the  balance  of  correct  propor- 
tions. You  had  heard  this  thought  stated 
repeatedly  throughout  your  school  days ; 
but  you  had  never  known  until  now  that  you 
had  missed  the  sense  of  it.  From  that  time 
the  father  as  well  as  the  mother  had  a  share 
in  the  education  of  your  children. 


1  o 


The  Mother-Artist 

III.     Character 

Growth,  not  protection,  is  the  end  of  life: 
To  see  for  self  and  choose  'twixt  good  and  ill 


\ 


I 


The  Mother-Artist 

III.    Character 

WITH  great  delight  you  realized  again 
your  husband's  interest  in  the  chil- 
dren's growth  ;  but  you  still  did  hesi- 
tate over  his  judgment  in  the  choice  of  Don- 
ald's mates.  It  seemed  as  if  he  must  be 
making,  this  time,  one  of  the  proverbial 
man's  mistakes. 

"  I  shouldn't  bother  myself  so  much  about 
bad  boys,"  he  said,  "  let  Donald  choose  for 
himself." 

"  But  he  is  such  a  baby  !  " 

"He  always  will  be  as  long  as  you  pick 
out  the  boys  for  him  to  play  with." 

"  He  will  know  how  himself,  when  he  is 
older,  if  he  doesn't  go  with  any  but  good 
boys  now." 

•*  Never, 

2  3  ] 


\ 


The   N other- Artist 

"  Never,  until  he  begins  to  choose  them 
himself.  People  don't  come  in  assorted  lots. 
Every  one  is  a  mixture  of  good  and  bad  and 
made  up  in  proportions  different  from  every 
other  one.  You  can't  teach  him  how  much 
bad  to  risk  for  the  sake  of  the  good  that  goes 
with  it  by  labeling  a  few.  He  's  got  to  find 
out  how  to  do  the  labeling  himself." 

Still  you  doubted.  "  It  seems  as  if  doing 
it  for  him  at  first  would  help." 

"  No,  the  child  must  be  left  to  grow.  I'm 
no  more  up  in  the  science  of  boy  training 
than  you  are,  but  I  do  know  one  thing, — 
they  must  do  their  own  growing.  We  can't 
do  it  for  them." 

"  But,  certainly,  Fred,"  you  urged,  "  we 
can  train  their  judgment." 

"  Yes,  that's  exactly  the  thing  to  do  ;  go 
ahead,  wifie,  and  find  out  a  way.  Your  way 
wouldn't  do  it.  How  would  you  manage  it 
by  your  plan  ?  Would  you  tell  Donald  that 
he  is  too  good  to  play  with  this  and  that  and 
the  other  one  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  of  course  not,"  eagerly.       "  I 

would 
[24 


The    N other- Artist 

would    be   very    cautious    how    I    put     it." 

"  Yes,  and  do  you  suppose  you  can  pull 
the  wool  over  his  eyes  by  caution  ?  Doesn't 
the  child  scent  out  the  Pharisee  in  his  father 
and  mother  quicker  than  anything  else?  And 
doesn't  he  take  to  the  character  himself,  like 
a  duck  to  water  ?  I  would  rather  see  my  boy 
in  the  gutter  than  a  moral  snob." 

"  Oh,  Fred  !  " 

"  I  mean  it,  dear.  A  drunkard  at  least 
despises  his  obliquity ;  a  moral  snob  ad- 
mires his.  But  I  don't  believe  there  is 
need  of  either.  I  am  sure  we  can  find  a 
way  to  keep  our  boys  reasonably  decent 
both  in  conduct  and  character." 

You  believed  this  might  be  done,  and 
remembering  the  conceit  you  had  discov- 
ered in  yourself,  you  set  yourself  to  the 
task  of  joining  your  husband's  idea  and 
yours, — freedom  for  the  children  and  the 
training  of  their  judgment.  You  could 
not  plan  what  you  would  do  all  at  once  ; 
but  you  could  see  that  home  standards 
must   be  made   those  for  the  child  to  use 


in 


M] 


The    Mother-  Artist 

in  his  little  world  outside.  It  was  anxious 
work  at  first,  but  Donald  gave  you  no  real 
trouble.  He  seemed  to  know  how  to  be 
friendly  to  the  good  in  a  boy  without  being 
intimate  with  the  bad.  Tom  had  more  dif- 
ficulty, from  his  more  impulsive  tempera- 
ment; but  he  never  was  vicious,  and  his 
honest  little  nature  worked  its  way  out, 
finally,  under  the  influences  of  home. 
Tom  is  now  as  trusty  in  his  choice  of 
friends  as   Donald. 

Step  by  step  you  gained  your  end. 
Looking  back,  you  see  the  course  you 
followed. 

A  certain  instinct  led  you  to  avoid  the 
plan  of  coaxing  the  children  with  amuse- 
ments invented  for  them  by  the  anxious 
elder  ones, — a  process  which  many  call 
"making  home  attractive."  Instead,  you 
took  the  ground  that  each  child  has  his 
part  to  do  toward  the  happiness  of  the 
home.  You  gave  each  one  some  pleasing 
little  task.  Among  others  were  their 
duties  to  your  guests.  If  it  were  com- 
pany 

[    2  6 


The   N  other-  Artist 

pany  to  pass  the  day,  the  children  showed 
them  where  they  might  take  off  their 
wraps ;  if  a  gathering  for  the  evening, 
they  waited  on  the  door  besides  ;  and  if  the 
visitor  remained  for  days,  a  child,  appointed, 
went  to  the  guest  room  after  dinner  to  make 
certain  that  the  maid  had  left  it  in  good  order 
for  the  night.  This  special  duty  could  be 
theirs  at  eight  years  old  ;  and  they  looked 
forward,  from  their  baby  years,  eagerly,  to 
their  initiation  into  it.  Of  course,  for 
certainty  of  comfort  to  your  guests,  you 
always  made  it  in  your  way  to  look  into 
the  room  yourself;  and  you  were  both 
surprised  and  pleased  to  see  the  accuracy 
which  the  children  showed  in  case  of  care- 
less doing  of  the  servant.  Their  feeling 
of  the  honor  laid  upon  them  quickened 
their  eyes  and  memories. 

Again,  you  studied  all  their  separate 
tastes.  Geography  was  a  great  favorite 
with  Donald  ;  and  you  got  globes  for  him, 
and  maps  and  pictures ;  and  you  directed 
his  attention,  by  a  suggestion  now  and  then. 


as 


a  7] 


The    Nother- Artist 

as  you  had  the  time  for  it,  to  the  available 
literature  of  any  country  studied.  Tom 
reveled  in  machinery  of  every  kind  he 
could  get  hold  of;  you  gave  him  all  the 
chances  possible  for  exercising  this  taste.  In 
all  these  things  Fred  did  his  share  as  faith- 
fully as  you  your  own.  You  instigated  all 
the  children  to  invent  new  games,  to  make 
things  for  themselves,  to  act  in  little  plays. 
At  times  you  and  Fred  joined  in  a  charade  ; 
and  the  ones  you  joined  in  were  played  by 
them  many  times,  and  all  the  fimny  points 
repeated  carefully.  "  You  can  say  funnier 
things  than  we  can,"  they  said,  "  because 
you  know  so  much." 

In  all  of  this  companionship  with  them, 
life's  questions  constantly  arose.  You 
never  preached  to  them  of  these.  You 
only  said,  "In  such  a  case  it  is  honest  to 
do  so  and  so,  isn't  it  ?  what  do  you  think  ?  " 
The  standards  for  all  acts  were  taken  for 
granted, — honesty  and  truth  and  kindli- 
ness, and  bravery  in  standing  up  for 
them. 

Step 

[28 


The    Mother-  Artist 

Step  by  step  you  gained  your  end.  The 
home  has  always  been  their  greatest  inter- 
est. At  times  even  the  care  for  some  home 
comfort  or  amusement  for  the  rest  has 
been  sufficient  motive  to  one  or  other  of 
them  for  foregoing  a  strong  attraction  else- 
where, and  as  a  natural  consequence  home 
standards  have  become,  or  always  have 
been,  the  ones  for  judgment  of  things  in 
the  world, — just  the  aim  you  sought. 

You  have  reason,  especially  of  late,  for 
gladness  in  your  husband's  stand  against 
self-righteousness.  For  it  has  led,  you 
feel,  to  a  development  in  Donald's  charac- 
ter of  unsuspected  strength.  A  little  while 
ago  *  he  came  from  school  and  to  your  room, 
with  his  face  distressed  and  pale. 

"  Mother  ! "  he  said,  and  seemed  unable 
to  go  on. 

"Why,  Donald,  boy,  what  is  it?"  you 
asked,  alarmed. 

"Well  —  you     know  —  how    the    fellows 

snub    Jones.     They    won't    have    anything 

to    do    with    him.       He     is    always    getting 

in 
*A  true  incident. 

1  9] 


The     Tlother- Artist 

in  with  muckers,  but  it's  because  he 
doesn't  know  any  better.  They  cheat  him 
into  taking  hold  of  some  of  their  deviltry, 
and  he's  always  their  cat's  paw.  He  never 
sees  what  they  are  doing  till  he's  in  too  far 
to  get  out,  and  since  his  last  scrape  the  de- 
cent fellows  have  shut  down  on  him,  every 
one  of  them.  I  did,  too,  but  the  other  day 
he  came  up  to  me  in  the  street  and  asked 
me  if  1  wouldn't  let  him  speak  to  me.  He 
said  he  didn't  mean  to  be  so  bad,  and  he 
wished  the  fellows  would  give  him  another 
chance  ;  he  thought  he  had  found  out  enough 
to  keep  him  away  from  such  scrapes  another 
time.  He  said  he  didn't  like  those  micks, 
but  he  must  have  somebody,  and  wouldn't  I 
help  him  to  get  in  again  with  our  fellows. 
Of  course  I  told  him  I  couldn't  ask  any  of 
them  to  go  with  him,  but  I'd  stand  by  him 
myself.  I  couldn't  go  back  on  him  when 
became  to  me  like  that,  could  I,  mother? 
I'm  awfully  sorry  for  him;  he  isn't  a  bad 
boy,  really ;  he  isn't  a  sneak,  like  some  of 
those  who  won't  go  with  him,  and  he  hasn't 


[3  o 


The     9Iother- Artist 

a  good  home,  not  like  us ;  his  mother  and 
father  are  away  half  the  time,  and  when 
they're  there  they  don't  want  him  'round. 
Well,  while  we  were  talking  Sallie  came 
along,  and  it's  happened  that  way  four  or 
five  times  since  ;  and  to-day  at  recess  she 
came  up  to  me  and  said :  "  Donald,  I  don't 
associate  with  any  boy  who  makes  a  friend 
of  Simeon  Jones.  If  you  don't  give  him 
up,  you'll  have  to  give  me  up.  Will  you 
promise  not  to  speak  to  him  again?" 

You  waited  for  his  answer,  wondering. 
Would  he  be  strong?  for  he  loved  Sallie 
with  all  his  boyish  soul. 

"It  was  awful,  mother.  Everything 
turned  kind  of  black ;  don't  you  know  how 
it  does?  But  there  wasn't  anything  to  do; 
I'd  promised  Sim  I'd  stand  by  him,  so  I  said, 

*No."' 

How  your  heart  ached  for  the  boy  !  You 
soothed  him  as  you  could,  resolving  to  your- 
self that  you  would  explain  the  matter  to  the 
girl.  She  lived  in  the  next  town ;  you  did 
not  know  her  family,  and  had  met  her  only 


31] 


The    Mother- Artist 

a  few  times.  You  would,  however,  find  a 
way  to  see  her  and  tell  her  the  whole  story. 
But  when  you  and  Fred  were  talking  of  it 
together,  he  said :  "  Don't  do  it  yet,  dear. 
It's  a  tragedy  for  the  boy  now,  but  it  won't 
hurt  him.  We  don't  know  that  Sallie  is 
really  worth  the  trouble,  and  if  she  isn't  it 
would  be  taking  too  much  notice  of  her.  If 
she  is  what  we  have  thought,  perhaps  she 
will  find  out  the  truth  herself.  She  knows 
Donald  isn't  a  rowdy ;  the  boys  will  begin 
to  talk  it  over  soon,  and  the  whole  story 
may  come  out  in  its  true  colors  without  our 
doing  anything  about  it.  SalHe  will  under- 
stand Donald  all  the  better  for  working  on 
it  herself;  and  if  we  find  she's  sound  and 
needs  a  little  help  by  and  by,  you  can  step 
in  at  the  right  moment  and  give  it  to  her." 
And  you,  with  trust  now,  after  all  these 
years,  in  those  convictions  which  were  strong 
with  him,  answered,  "  Perhaps  that  is  best, 
but  it's  hard  to  keep  still." 


[3  2 


The  Mother-Artist 

IV.    The  Babies  as  Teachers 


\ 

*Jnd  by  the  Vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended" 

— Intimations  of  Immortality 


The  Mother-Artist 

IV.     The  Babies  as  Teachers 

ALL  this  has  been  strong  brain-life.  Is  it 
not  strange  that  you  have  pitied  your- 
self oftentimes  for  being  able  to  attend 
the  club  only  occasionally?  You  have  been 
living  the  rich  mother-life,  while  at  the  club 
they  have  been  talking  of  it.  Your  pity 
ought  to  be  for  childless  women,  or  for  those 
mothers  who  prefer  to  talk  about  their  chil- 
dren to  living  in  their  lives.  Thank  God 
that  only  few  of  these  exist ;  but  still  there 
are  some.  The  pleasure-loving  woman  is 
found  everywhere ;  sometimes  society  is  to 
her  taste,  sometimes  she  dissipates  in  clubs 
or  church  *'  aids."  She  is  the  one  for  pity, 
not  yourself.  You  have  been  living  the  real 
life,  and  club,  society  and  church   have  been 

auxiliary 

35] 


\ 


The    Mother-  Artist 

auxiliary  to  the  home  and  to  humanity's  in- 
terests. This  is  the  proper  function  of  all 
these  organizations.  Why  not  enjoy  your 
intellectual  life  in  this,  your  work,  as  other 
intellectual  workers  do  ? 

But  art  and  music  and  the  drama,  how 
little  you  have  had  of  these,  you  say  ?  You 
mean,  how  much  of  them !  Recall  your 
Christmas  mornings  when  the  children  all 
were  young.  The  little  white-gowned  fig- 
ures, peeping  into  your  room,  and  then  the 
shout,  "  They're  awake  !  Merry  Christmas  ! 
Merry  Christmas  !  "  The  dancing  through 
the  door,  each  with  overflowing  stocking  in 
the  hand,  and  the  scrambling  up  onto  the  bed  ; 
the  joyful  shouts,  as  wished-for  gifts  come 
forth;  rejoicings,  each  over  the  good  fortune 
of  the  others  ;  the  gratitude  and  love  toward 
papa  and  mamma  ;  their  own  small  offerings, 
bespeaking  size  of  giver  and  his  purse ; 
the  flaxen  heads  and  brown,  bending  above 
treasures  or  tossing  with  high  glee ;  the 
chorus  of  merry  voices, — could  painted  pic- 
ture ever  be  so  perfect,  or  music  made  by 

reed 

[36 


The    J^  other-  Artist 

reed  or  string  so  sweet  ?  You  have  not 
known  that  your  own  babies  were  your 
teachers  in  art  and  music ;  but  they  far  sur- 
pass the  painted  canvas  or  bands  of  men 
playing  on  instruments. 

Their  Uterary  criticism,  too,  is  of  the  high- 
est. Their  innocence  throws  Hght  on  molif 
of  tale  in  fiction  or  in  history.  They  go 
directly  to  the  heart  of  it.  "  Did  Antonio 
spit  upon  Shylock  and  call  him  names  be- 
cause he  didn't  like  Jews  ?  What  a  wicked 
man,  wasn't  he,  mamma  ?  "  The  inhuman 
hatred  of  Christian  for  the  Jew  seemed  more 
than  ever  fiendish  in  the  light  of  their  inno- 
cence. Antonio  was  stripped,  suddenly,  of 
all  the  glamour  with  which  youth  and  beauty 
had  bedecked  him. 

And  exquisite,  indeed,  was  Silas  Marner 
in  contact  with  their  tenderness?  It  was  a 
rainy  day  that  first  time  that  you  told  this 
story.  Some  little  playmates  had  come  in  to 
see  your  older  children.  You  told  the  tale 
as  you  sat  sewing,  and  six  happy  faces  were 
looking   intently  into   yours   whenever    you 

glanced 

3  7] 


The    H other- Artist 

glanced  up.  You  told  of  Silas'  loving  nature, 
thrown  back  upon  itself  by  treacherous  friend 
and  faithless  sweetheart ;  you  showed  that  it 
had  nothing  to  expend  itself  upon  except  the 
hoarding  up  of  money  ;  you  told  them  of  the 
baby  straying  into  his  small  cottage  and  fall- 
ing asleep  upon  the  floor;  and  how,  awaken- 
ing out  of  one  of  those  strange  naps,  the 
baby's  hair  appeared  to  Silas'  eyes,  short- 
sighted as  they  were,  like  his  lost  gold ;  and 
then  he  tried  to  grasp  it  in  his  hand,  and  felt 
instead  the  touch  of  babv  curls  :  and  when 
you  said  he  loved  the  little  thing  from  the 
first  moment  when  it  nestled  in  his  arms,  and 
how  he  would  not  give  it  up  to  public  char- 
ity, and  how  he  cared  for  it  with  patient, 
clumsy  skill, — and  the  kind  woman  neighbor 
helped  him, — how  the  sweet  faces  looking 
into  yours  glowed  with  tenderness !  You 
felt  a  deepening  of  your  own  warm  love  for 
this  rare  gem  of  literature.  The  traits  of 
Silas'  character,  and  the  child's  love  for  him, 
which  loyally  withstood,  when  she  was  grown, 
the    allurements    of  the   wealth  and    station 

which 

[3  8 


The   Mother-  Artist 

which  belonged  to  her, — these  all  showed  a 
deeper  greatness  by  the  light  of  the  apprecia- 
tion given  them  by  your  child  listeners. 
Oh,  those  story-hours !  How  the  great 
drama  we  are  living  has  unfolded  its  grand 
features,  clear  from  false  whims  and  artificial 
notions,  as  the  child  innocence  has  illuminated 
the  pictures  you  have  held  up  for  their  amuse- 
ment! 

Little  mother,  you  have  taught  your 
children  a  few  of  life's  facts  and  principles  as 
you  have  seen  them  ;  but  they,  the  children, 
have  been  leading  you  along  the  highways 
of  the  living  God,  where  his  clear  sunlight 
shows  things  as  they  are.  Their  vision,  un- 
obstructed by  the  pride  of  life,  sees  inner 
spirit  where  our  purblind  adult  sight  dis- 
cerns but  little  more  than  outer  shape  ;  and 
their  unsullied  natures  make  demand  upon 
you  for  the  best  interpretation  of  what  you 
have  to  offer  them.  Thereby  come  revela- 
tions to  yourself  of  what  there  is  in  life 
which  you  have  never  dreamed  of  here- 
tofore. 

It 

3  9] 


The    Tlother- Artist 

It  was  so  with  the  Bible,  markedly.  You 
wondered  how  you  should  begin  it  with 
them,  and  when  the  time  was  come  they  led 
you  with  their  guilelessness,  thinking,  you 
and  they,  that  it  was  you  that  showed  to 
them  the  truth. 

A  favorite  tale  was  that  of  Israel's  chil- 
dren. They  liked  to  hear  it  many  times, 
and  often  wished  to  tell  some  parts  of  it 
themselves.  "  Let  me  tell  it  to  Cousin 
Mollie,"  begged  Tom  one  day,  when  one  of 
your  own  cousins  whom  the  children  dearly 
loved  was  visiting  at  your  house.  "  Well, 
the  children  of  Israel  complained  and  com- 
plainedy  and  Moses  didn't  know  what  to  do 
with  himself;  but  the  Lord  said,  *  Don't  you 
worry  yourself,  /'//  take  care  of  it  all.* " 
Tom's  version  certainly  had  in  it  nothing  of 
the  letter  which  killeth,  and  much  of  the 
spirit  which  maketh  alive.  The  children 
commented  that  day  with  eagerness.  "  / 
wouldn't  have  done  so,  would  you,  mamma, 
when  the  Lord  had  been  so  good  to  them 
and  led  them  away  from  their  wicked  enemies, 

and 


[4 


The    J^ other- Artist 

and  had  taken  care  of  them  all  the  long 
journey  ? "  And  you  answered :  "  Yes, 
Donald,  it  is  just  like  what  we  all  do,  don't 
you  know?  Have  you  forgotten  how  you  fret- 
ted that  day  that  it  rained  and  you  had  to 
give  up  your  ball  game  with  the  boys? 
Wasn't  that  a  complaining  of  what  the  Lord 
sent,  like  the  children  of  Israel  ?  "  Then, 
because  you  saw  him  look  embarrassed,  you 
went  on  :  "  And  mamma  and  papa  and  Cousin 
Mollie,  too,  have  to  try  not  to  complain. 
We  intended,  you  know,  to  spend  several 
weeks  at  the  shore,  and  when  papa  found 
that  his  business  would  keep  him  from  going 
it  was  hard  at  the  first  to  imagine  the  Heav- 
enly Father  had  meant  to  be  kind.  But 
now  see  how  foolish  we  all  were, — the  chil- 
dren of  Israel,  and  you,  and  papa  and  I. 
They  got  to  the  beautiful  land  that  was 
promised  to  them  by  taking  that  journey, 
and  it  was  the  only  way  they  ever  could  have 
got  there ;  and  you  were  at  home  on  the  day 
that  it  rained,  and  Uncle  Jack  came  here 
and  carried  you  into  the  country,  and  if  you 

had 

41] 


The     Ho  ther- Artist 

had  been  at  the  ball  ground  you  would  have 
missed  that ;  and  if  we  had  been  at  the  shore 
we  should  have  lost  the  visit  Aunt  Lucy 
has  made  us  and  all  that  has  come  to  us 
from  it.  So  you  see  that  the  Lord  gives  us 
beautiful  things  when  we  think  he  is  only 
trying  to   keep  some  blessing  from  us." 

"  Yes,  and  it's  mean  to  treat  him  that  way. 
I'm  going  to  stop  it,  aren't  you,  Tom  ?  But 
mamma,  he  doesn't  give  us  something  better 
every  time." 

"  No,  sometimes  he  can't,  because  we  be- 
have so  badly  ;  just  as  I  couldn't  get  baby 
ready  one  day  to  go  out  when  you  went, 
because  she  was  crying  and  squirming,  and 
yet  the  going  out  with  you  was  what  she  was 
crying  to  do.  And  then,  oftentimes,  we  can't 
see  what  the  good  is  which  comes ;  but 
always  it  does  come,  unless  we  prevent  it  by 
being  unhappy." 

"  How  do  we  know  it  comes,  mamma, 
when  we  can't  see  it  ?  " 

"  By  seeing  it  so  very  many  times  at  the 
moment,  and  so  often  when  the  disappoint- 
ment 

[42 


The    ?I  other-  Artist 

ment  is  over,  if  we  have  not  seen  it  at  first  • 
and  if  we  remember  this,  and  don't  cry  and 
are  happy,  it  is  *  trusting  the  Lord.'  Don't 
you  know  how  often  we  say  that  everyone 
should  trust  in  the  Lord  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  is  that  what  it  means  ?  " 

Afterward  you  heard  Donald  and  Tom 
talking :  "  Say,  Tom,  did  you  hear  what 
mamma  said  ?  She  and  papa  have  to  try, 
too,  to  be  good  !  My  !  when  I'm  as  good 
as  they  are,  I  won't  try  any  more  !  " 

"  Bet  yer  life,  I  won't.  They're  good 
enough ;  but  then,  we  can't  ever  be  as  good 
as  they  are,  Don." 

"  Sure — not." 

The  Bible  showed  you  its  true  nature  now. 
Any  objectionable  external  feature  fell  away 
from  it  when  you  began  to  tell  the  story  to 
them.  Always  there  was  some  way,  without 
your  changing  any  narrative  suited  on  the 
whole  to  their  young  minds,  of  modifying 
whatever  incident  you  could  not  give  them 
in  its  baldness. 

In  Joseph's   story,   a  great   favorite,   you 

said 

43] 


The    Toother- Artist 

said  of  Potiphar's  wife  that  she  wished 
Joseph  to  do  a  wicked  thing,  and  he  would 
not,  and  that  in  her  anger  toward  him  she 
told  her  husband  lies  about  him  so  that  he 
would  cast  Joseph  into  prison.  And,  in 
passing,  you  reminded  them  of  what  you 
said  one  day  about  the  good  in  trials ;  you 
pointed  out  that  Joseph,  not  complaining, 
through  his  cheerfulness  and  helpfulness  to 
others  came  to  greatness  that  was  ready  for  him 
which  he  must  get  by  staying  a  little  while 
in  prison ;  if  he  had  passed  his  time  in 
moping,  the  others  never  would  have  known 
that  he  could  tell  the  meaning  of  their 
dreams,  and  it  was  this  which  led  to  all  his 
greatness.  Of  Abraham's  sacrifice  you  said 
it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  Lord  told  him  he 
must  make  it ;  but  that  really  he  did  not 
want  him  to,  as  Abraham  found  when  he  tried 
to  obey;  but  even  this  you  did  not  tell  them 
in  their  younger  years. 

Neither  you  nor  Fred  had  ever  known  be- 
fore the  Bible  as  it  is.  Till  lately  it  had 
seemed  to  you  a  book  of  precepts  mingled 

with 

[44 


The    Tlother-  Artist 

with  old  tales,  instructive,  morally,  in  gen- 
eral, as  examples  or  as  warnings.  From 
habit  and  from  education  you  had  thought 
that  it  was  good,  without  the  knowledge, 
definitely,  of  how  its  various  phases  might  be 
reconciled.  The  children's  atmosphere  illu- 
minated yours  at  the  same  time  that  they 
questioned,  and  you  beheld  this  Book  the 
history  of  the  human  soul.  The  babies  were 
your  teachers  where  you  imagined  that  you 
had  been  theirs  alone. 

And  so  it  has  been  with  the  whole  phil- 
osophy of  life,  which  flows  out  of  the  inner 
meaning  of  the  Book ;  for  these  are  one,  as 
is  the  sunlight  with  the  parent  sun.  You 
told  your  children  of  the  likeness  of  this 
world  to  the  soul  world ;  and  the  fitness  of 
this  truth  to  their  child-nature  threw  for  you 
a  flood  of  light  upon  the  things  you  pointed 
out  to  them.  You  said  that  heat  is  like  love ; 
that  always  people  speak  as  if  it  were,  for  we 
say  that  we  feel  warm  toward  others  when 
we  love  them.  In  the  same  way  we  speak  of 
truth  as  light.     We  often  say,  "  By  the  light 

of 

45] 


The   M  other-  Artist 

of  this  truth  we  can  see,"  etc.  You  showed 
that  love  and  wisdom  of  the  Lord — his 
life — are  like  the  sunlight,  for  they  shine 
upon  us  all  the  time,  when  we,  the  earth, 
do  not  turn  away  or  put  dark  clouds  be- 
tween. They  give  us  always  happiness  and 
health  when  we  will  take  them. 

All  this  was  told,  a  little  at  a  time,  that  you 
might  not  carry  the  child-mind  beyond  its 
depth.  How  your  own  ideas  grew,  led  by 
the  eager  questions  !  What  were  the  flowers 
like  ?  Why,  they  were  the  thoughts  of 
angels  in  material  form.  And  animals? 
They  were  the  acts  of  love  the  angels  con- 
stantly are  putting  forth  in  countless  numbers. 

"  And  the  bad  animals,  they  can't  be  the 
acts  of  the  angels  ?"  Donald,  the  thoughtful, 
asked. 

"  No,  dear,  they  are  very  unpleasant  to 
think  of;  but  even  the  bad  ones  have  their 
good  powers,  and  you  know  that  the  Bible 
says  that  the  Hon  and  the  lamb  shall  lie  down, 
sometime,  together.  So  one  day  the  bad 
will  be  tamed,  and  only  the  good  they  have 
in  them  will  live."  And 

[46 


The    Mother-  Artist 

And  so  the  human  and  the  things  of 
nature  were  woven  into  one  rich  web  of 
life,  and  the  word  which  tells  of  it  is  the 
Great  Book  Divine,  and  the  child-innocence 
illuminates  it  all. 

"■And  a  little  child  shall  lead  them." 


\ 


47] 


The  Mother-Artist 

V.     Men  and  Women 

"  fVoman  is  not  undeveloped  man. 
But  diverse  " 

—  The  Princess 


\ 


The   Mother-Artist 

V.    Men  and  Women 

WORK 

ONCE  Donald  asked  why  papa  went  to 
the  city  every  day.  Here  another 
revelation  awaited  you.  You  had  not 
thought  before  of  the  industrial  system  as 
more  than  man's  contrivance  for  the  making 
of  the  family  living  and  a  fortune.  That  it 
had  anything  of  God's  great  purpose  in  it 
was  a  new  idea.  Now,  with  those  earnest 
child-eyes  looking  into  yours,  the  question 
that  arose  in  your  own  mind  was  startling. 
Is  business  nothing  but  a  universal  grab-bag, 
a  street-boy  scramble  for  the  pennies  God 
has  thrown  ?  And  is  the  normal  method  of 
its  being  done  a  jostling  and  a  pushing  and 
a  grasping  of  all  the  fist  can  hold,  and  shov- 
ing it  greedily  into  one's  own  coffers  ?     You 

answered 


\ 


The     J^  other- Artist 

answered  Donald  briefly  that  papa  got  the 
money  for  your  living  by  his  business,  and 
turned  attention  to  the  many  kinds  of  trade ; 
and  the  conversation  ended  in  the  boy's 
decision  that  when  he  was  grown  he 
would  be  a  grocer's  man,  because  then  he 
could  ride  around  and  drive  a  horse  all  the 
time.  This  was  of  course  enough  to  satisfy 
the  child,  but  it  did  not  satisfy  you,  for  you 
looked  forward  involuntarily  to  the  day  when 
you  must  give  him  a  motive  for  going  out 
into  the  world  of  business,  and  what  should 
it  be?  So  when  the  children  all  were  sleep- 
ing you  and  your  husband  talked  in  earnest. 
By  one  of  those  coincidences  which  often 
happen,  he  had  been  roused  to  similar 
thought  of  late  by  a  conversation  with  a 
friend.  You  worked  it  out  together  with 
great  interest.  You  saw  that  if  the  industrial 
system  were  a  mass  of  disconnected  individ- 
ual efforts  for  private  ends,  then  men  were 
spending  life  in  making  gain  for  self;  for 
though  one  might  be  generous  with  the  sur- 
plus   riches    once  possessed,  the  seeking  of 

them 


[5 


The     Hoiher- Artist 

them  would  have  no  inherent  purpose  in  it 
except  self-interest.  Thus  the  only  men 
whose  daily  lives  would  be  a  service  to  their 
fellows  would  be  the  minister,  the  missionary 
and  the  philanthropist.  Light  dawned  upon 
the  whole  when  this  thought  came, — that  all 
life's  work  of  every  man  should  be  inherently 
a  service  to  the  world.  So  when  you  talked 
of  it  again  to  Donald  you  had  a  worthy  topic 
for  his  questions.  Papa's  business  was  no 
longer  a  mere  contrivance  planned  by  him 
for  getting  money  for  yourselves.  It  was 
a  part  of  a  great  organism  which,  from  its 
very  nature  and  in  spite  of  the  deformity 
into  which  man's  greed  had  twisted  it,  was 
inherently  a  service  of  every  man  to  all  and 
all  to  each.  It  was  worthy  to  be  scanned  by 
the  Godhke  innocence  of  the  child,  and  to 
be  entered  into  by  the  manliness  of  man. 

How  it  delighted  Donald  to  think  about 
the  persons  and  the  nations  that  had  con- 
tributed to  one  breakfast  and  its  service ! 
He  was  especially  enchanted  with  the 
thought  that  all  of  us  are  daily  served  by  a 

greater 

53] 


The     Mother  -  Artist 

greater  retinue  than  kings  in  olden  time 
could  summon  for  their  personal  wants. 
Then  followed  the  comparative  study  in 
simple  fashion  of  customs  and  of  habits  in 
different  ages  and  various  countries.  Then 
he  delighted  to  consider  his  father's  business 
as  a  part  of  the  great  industry,  and  to  think 
out  the  individuals  and  nations  benefited  by 
it. 

But  one  day  you  saw  a  cloud  upon  the 
happy  face. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Donald?  " 

"Why — the  mammas — they  are  all  left 
out.     They  don't  have  any  business." 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear,  they  have  a  beautiful 
part.  The  papas  couldn't  do  theirs  without 
it." 

Then  you  said  that  men  alone  can  never 
be  more  than  half  the  race.  Naturally,  you 
could  not  show  him — for  he  was  too  young — 
how  the  humanities  of  home  tend  to  the  soft- 
ening of  the  business  lite,  and  how  the  rigid- 
ness  of  business  gives  firmness  to  the  home. 
You  could  not  picture  to  him  a  community 

of 

[54 


The    N other- Artist 

of  men  brutalized  by  lacking  woman's  influ- 
ence, or  one  of  women  inane  from  the  ab- 
sence of  manhood's  special  genius.  You 
could  point  out,  though,  how  his  papa  dearly 
loved  his  home, — made  up  of  you  and  Don- 
ald, Tom  and  baby.  You  told  him  how  he 
carried  the  love  of  you  all  day  with  him,  and 
that  he  was  a  better  business  man  for  having 
it ;  more  honest,  just,  and  eager  to  serve  his 
fellow  men.  So,  gradually  you  instilled  into 
his  mind  the  mutual  dependence  of  the  man 
and  the  woman;  the  intertwining  into  one  of 
the  masculinity  of  business  and  the  femininity 
of  home. 

Thus  you  showed  that  woman's  part  is 
homemaking ;  and  that  whatever  woman  did, 
even  if  it  seemed  the  same  as  man  was  do- 
ing in  the  business  world,  she  always  did  it 
in  her  woman's  way,  for  being  a  woman  it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  do  it  in  any  other ; 
that  all  business  and  all  work  of  every  kind 
has  its  woman's  side,  and  this  is  better  done 
by  woman  than  by  man,  naturally ;  and  that 
much  work  of  the  world  has  been  and  still 


remains 


55] 


The    Tiother- Artist 

remains  undone  because  the  people  are  only 
now  discovering  that  there  is  a  woman's  side 
to  many  of  the  businesses.  You  said  that  it 
is  in  the  family  that  homemaking  is  at  its 
greatest  perfectness,  and  that  here  is  where 
we  learn  of  its  true  value ,  for  the  mamma 
knows  how  to  turn  the  mere  housekeeping 
into  the  home  which  man  so  dearly  loves, 
and  that  no  man  can  do  it,  or  even  knows 
how  it  is  done.  That  this  might  be  made 
clear  you  asked  if  he  remembered  how  he 
felt  in  those  two  weeks  when  you  were  absent, 
and  he  said  eagerly,  "  Oh,  yes,  mamma;  it  was 
just  as  if  there  wasn't  anybody  much  here, 
though  everybody  else  was  here  just  the 
same,  and  Cousin  Mollie,  too."  Then  you 
told  him  that  this  was  woman's  work — she 
made  the  home  feel  like  home,  and  it  was 
why  his  papa  loved  you  so  dearly. 

These  talks  occurred  a  little  at  a  time,  and 
often  after  long  intervals  of  interest  in  other 
things;  for  you  never  forced  any  conversa- 
tion,— you  always  let  the  children  lead.  You 
have  seen  that  what  a  child  is  interested  in 


at 


[56 


The   Nother- Artist 

at  the  moment  is  what  his  mind  is  ready  to 
learn  about  just  then.  One  day  Donald  said, 
"  But  men  can  keep  house,  can't  they, 
mamma?  because  Uncle  Jack  did  in  the 
mountain  camp." 

"Yes,  men  can  do  housekeeping,  but  not 
homemaking." 

After  that  you  saw  him  watching  you  some- 
times when  you  were  at  your  household 
tasks,  and  he  would  say,  "  Now,  you're  mak- 
ing it  feel  'homey,'  and  I  don't  know  how 
you  do  it,  do  I  ?  "  You  overheard  him  tell- 
ing Tom  that  mamma  knew  something  that 
papa  never  could,  nor  all  the  men  in  all  the 
world  ;  it  was  how  to  make  home  feel  homey. 
"  And  she  has  a  thousand  ways,  Tom,  of 
doing  it,  and  you  don't  ever  see  her  doing  it, 
and  she's  doing  it  all  the  time."  Tom's 
black  eyes  opened  wide ;  the  puzzle  was  too 
much  for  him. 

One  day  Donald  asked  suddenly,  "  Men 
wouldn't  know  how  nice  it  is  to  have  home 
homey,  would  they,  if  they  never  had  any 
women  to  do  it  for  them?" 

This 

57] 


The    Hother- Artist 

This  was  the  opportunity  you  wanted,  and 
you  purposely  led  the  conversation  to  the 
great  national  home.  You  pointed  out  some 
of  the  simpler  public  interests  which  provide 
for  the  national  family,  and  showed  that  the 
papas  do  their  share  for  the  big  home ;  some 
by  taking  office,  and  all  through  voting. 
Donald  listened  eagerly,  and  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, "Yes,  and  the  mammas  do  the- 
housekeeping  for  the  big  home  !  What  is  it 
that  they  do,  mamma  ?  " 

You  answered  that  no  woman  is  allowed 
to  do  her  part  in  the  great  national  home, 
and  the  child  was  deeply  disappointed.  He 
exclaimed,  "  Why,  that's  just  like  the  men 
keeping  house  by  themselves  and  never  know- 
ing how  much  bullier  it  would  be  to  have 
some  mammas  to  make  the  home!  " 

You  answered  him  that  many  men  and 
women  now  are  trying  to  alter  this  restric- 
tion, so  that  the  country,  the  large  home, 
may  have  the  mother-care  for  all,  especially 
for  its  small  children ;  and  you  said  that 
women  are  beginning  already  to  do  some- 
thing 

[58 


The    ?1  other-  Artist 

thing  of  the  municipal  housekeeping ;  also, 
that  in  a  few  places,  notably  the  great  country 
of  Australia,  the  motherhood  of  some  women 
lawyers  finds  now  its  rightful  exercise  in  one 
usefulness  man  never  thought  of, — the  Chil- 
dren's Court.  Donald  enthusiastically  ex- 
claimed, "When  I'm  a  man,  I'll  try  all  the 
time  till  the  mammas  can  be  mammas  in  the 
big  home,  too." 

SEX    RELATIONS 

The  usual  questions  about  birth  came 
early,  as  they  always  do  with  children  not 
devoid  of  intellect.  When  eight-pound 
Tom  appeared,  without  announcement  to 
the  older  boy,  and  claimed  the  family  rights, 
Donald,  quite  naturally,  inquired  where  he 
came  from.  Fred  had  informed  the  child  of 
the  baby's  advent,  and  gave  him  an  answer 
simple  and  true.  It  awakened  no  surprise 
in  Donald's  mind  because  there  was  no  mys- 
tery thrown  around  it.  He  accepted  it  and 
forgot  it,  and  three  years  later,  when  the  baby 


sister 


59] 


The   N other- Artist 

sister  as  suddenly  claimed  the  same  rights, 
he  asked  the  selfsame  question. 

You  and  Fred  have  kept  this  truthfulness 
throughout ;  for  lying  is  to  you  a  practice 
dangerous  and  immoral,  and  more  so  regard- 
ing what  you  say  of  sexual  matters  to  your 
children  than  about  any  other  subject  in  the 
world.  The  physiology  of  plants  furnishes 
nature's  own  open  revelation,  and  the  hatch- 
ing of  the  bird.  Now  that  Donald  is  nearing 
manhood  his  father  is  instilling  into  his  mind, 
as  if  incidentally,  thoughts  of  the  reverence 
manhood  owes  to  womanhood.  This  is  as 
it  should  be;  for  a  mother's  instruction  to 
her  boy  to  honor  womanhood  has  in  it,  una- 
voidably, something  of  appeal  for  honor  to 
herself;  a  father's,  on  the  contrary,  has  all 
the  force  of  the  generous  spirit  of  reverence 
for  what  is,  wholly,  not  himself  A  boy  re- 
spects his  mother  because  of  what  she  is  ;  but 
why  her  womanhood  should  command  his 
boyish  reverence,  and  how  to  act  it  out,  is 
learned  more  deeply  from  his  father's  honor 
for   her  than  it   can   be   in   any   other   way. 

Moreover, 

[60 


The     Mother- Artist 

Moreover,  the  father  can  impress  upon  his 
boy  more  strongly  what  and  what  not  to  do 
in  his  association  with  girl  friends ;  for  the 
father  has  his  own  knowledge  of  boy  nature, 
and  what  he  tells  him  as  possible  in  self-con- 
trol the  son  believes ;  while  the  mother's 
same  advice  on  practical  purity,  unsupported 
by  the  father,  the  boy  dismisses  oftentimes 
from  his  mind  as  "only  a  woman's;  she 
doesn't  know  what  a  boy  is." 

You  believe,  with  reason,  that  Donald  and 
Tom  are  profiting  by  this  association  of  their 
father  with  them  in  sexual  knowledge ;  and 
with  your  own  nearness  to  the  girls,  the  signs 
are  promising  that  the  home  standards  will 
be  those  of  all  your  children  in  this  supreme 
relation  of  our  human  lives. 


6i] 


The  Mother-Artist 

VI.    Discipline 

The  Slaughter  of  the  Innocents 


\ 


The  Mother-Artist 

VI.    Discipline 

SOME  persons  praise  your  children's 
manners  and  characters,  although  it  is 
commonly  said  among  your  friends  that 
in  your  children's  babyhood  you  used  no 
discipline.  The  praise  is  often  not  discrimi- 
nating, and  the  criticism  does  not  disturb 
your  peace  of  mind ;  for  people  are  accus- 
tomed to  assert  that  any  child  of  three  should 
have  been  "  conquered,"  whatever  that  may 
mean,  long  before  he  reached  that  age.  They 
speak  as  if  all  the  respectable  class,  with  the 
exception  of  a  few  unfortunates,  had  had  this 
inestimable  process  practiced  upon  them  in 
their  infancy  with  great  success.  You  fail  to 
see  the  grace  they  have  gained  by  it.  Cer- 
tainly most  adults  use  less  constant  self-con- 
trol 

65] 


The     THother- Artist 

trol  than  they  expect  from  children ;  they  are 
less  obedient  to  the  laws  of  right  living  that 
they  know  than  children  are  to  parents ;  they 
are  more  selfish  in  proportion  to  the  intelli- 
gence they  have.  Where  are  the  signs  of 
special  sanctification  which  has  come  from 
that  subduing  of  their  spirits  in  their  baby- 
hood which  they  exalt  so  highly?  The  little 
one  in  patience  surpasses  any  average  adult. 
What  man  or  woman  would  endure  the  nag- 
ging and  restrictions  placed  upon  a  child  by 
even  the  good  intentions  of  the  fathers  and 
the  mothers?  Children  listen  to  constant 
criticisms  and  remarks  about  themselves,  in 
private  and  in  public,  with  only  an  occasional 
cry  of  pain  against  them.  What  adult  is 
there  who  would  bear  a  thousandth  part  of 
them  without  ill  temper?  Children  obey 
the  whims  and  notions  of  the  mother  and 
the  nurse,  and  arbitrary  dictates  of  the  father, 
with  none  but  an  infrequent  assertion  of  their 
independence.  They  yield  to  punishment 
for  inadvertent  and  unconscious  errors  with 
less  rebellion  than  most  adults  show  in  suf- 
fering 

[6  6 


The    ?I  other-  Artist 

fering  consequences  for  their  own  mistakes. 
Children  are  slaves  to  ignorance  and  error, 
follies,  crimes,  of  parent,  teacher,  guardian, 
and  nurse  toward  them,  and  largely  they  are 
willing  ones.  Instead  of  an  attempt  to 
"  conquer  "  them,  the  parent  and  the  teacher 
should  daily  kneel  with  the  prayer,  "  God 
be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner  toward  these 
little  ones." 

You  had  by  instinct  some  perception  of 
your  true  relation  to  your  children.  As 
soon  as  a  new  immortal  soul  came  into  your 
life  you  recognized  him  as  an  independent 
being.  He  was  not  accountable  to  you  for 
every  act  and  thought ;  instead,  you  must 
account  for  what  you  do  for  him  to  your  and 
his  Creator.  In  certain  external  affairs  you 
must  point  out  the  way,  and  this  includes 
the  teaching  of  principles  in  words;  but  the 
guidance  of  his  spirit  is  beyond  your  knowl- 
edge and  power — it  is  in  the  hands  of  God 
alone.  Your  greatest  work  with  your  child 
is  to  learn  how  not  to  meddle  with  his  nor- 
mal growth.     Given  parents  who  are  meaning 

to 

67] 


The    N  other-  Artist 

to  live  the  highest  Hfe  they  know  of,  and  as 
great  freedom  to  the  children  as  is  compati- 
ble with  outer  order  and  healthfulness,  and 
instruction  in  principle  by  the  free  and  nat- 
ural conversation  of  home,  and  you  have  the 
best  conditions  for  the  growth  of  the  child 
into  a  normal  spiritual  being.  (There  are 
many  abnormal  spiritual  beings.)  Donald 
was  playing  with  his  blocks  one  day,  and 
you  asked  him  to  bring  you  something  lying 
on  the  table ;  he  did  not  start  even  at  your 
second  asking;  and  then  you  saw  that  he  was 
wholly  bent  upon  planning  the  structure  of 
a  house.  It  flashed  upon  you  that  checking 
his  idea  would  lose  to  him,  perhaps  forever, 
some  brain-power  just  struggling  into  birth. 
You  rose  and  fetched  the  thing  yourself. 
An  acquaintance  who  was  calling  soon  re- 
ported your  delinquency  :  "  She  is  spoiling 
that  child ;  she  doesn't  make  him  mind. 
My  six  children  all  learned  to  mind  bng 
before  they  were  as  old  as   Donald." 

Fred  smiled  when  he  heard  it.  "  I'm  glad 
to  know  in  time,"  he  said,  "  how  she  made 
such  dismal  failures  of  those  six  kids." 

Nevertheless, 

[6  8 


The    91other-Artist 

Nevertheless,  respect  for  their  individu- 
ality did  not  compel  you  to  give  them  every 
injurious  thing  they  wished.  At  first,  though, 
you  made  a  mistake  in  your  way  of  refusing 
what  you  knew  v/as  harmful,  and  this  even 
led  to  your  beginning  to  yield  to  the  child 
from  sheer  weariness  in  trying  to  talk  him 
into  willing  acquiescence  with  your  decision. 

"If  Donald  wants  to  make  a  dyspeptic  of 
himself,"  said  his  father,  "  there  needn't  be 
any  talk  about  it ;  he  simply  can't  do  it." 
He  was  trying  to  persuade  you  to  give  up 
the  habit  of  reasoning  with  the  child  every 
time  you  refused  him  anything.  You  had 
started  with  this  error,  common  to  mothers 
who  think  much  about  treating  children 
justly,  that  giving  him  a  reason  would  fill 
his  heart  with  a  sweet  contentment  upon 
being  deprived  of  the  only  thing  he  wanted 
at  the  moment,  and  to  his  childish  percep- 
tion the  only  thing  he  ever  would  want. 
This  course  soon  got  you  into  trouble.  Fi- 
nally, a  scene  was  this  : — 

"  Mamma,  there  isn't  any  sugar  on  my 
oatmeal!"  "Why. 

69] 


The     H  other- Artist 

"  Why,  yes,  dear,  there  is.  You  saw  me 
yourself  when  I  put  it  on.  You  can't  see  it 
because  it  has  melted.  Don't  vou  know 
that  when  we  put  milk ." 

"  Mamma,  give  me  some  more  !  Give  me 
much  !      I   want  much  !  " 

"  No,  dear,  you  mustn't  have  any  more, 
because  ." 

"  Give  me  much  !      I  want  much  !  " 

"  No,  dear,  it  will  make  you  sick." 

"  I  want  to  be  sick.     I  like  to  be  sick." 

"  Oh,  Donald,  think  how  uncomfortable 
you  feel  when  you  are  sick  !  " 

"  No,  I  don't  feel  uncomfle !  Give  me 
some  more  sugar  !  " 

"  But,  Donald,  it  makes  mamma  trouble 
to  take  care  of  you  when  you  are  sick." 

"  You  don't  have  to  take  care  of  me." 

"  Oh,  yes,  mamma  couldn't  let  her  little 
boy  be  sick  and  not  take  care  of  him  !  " 

(A  roar.)  "  Yes  you  could !  Give  me 
some  sugar !  " 

Here  Fred  arrived  upon  the  scene.  The 
little  tyrant  soon  was  settled  by  being  borne 

upon 

[70 


The     blather- Artist 

upon  his  father's  shoulders  up  to  his  own 
room  and  going  breakfastless.  Fred  talked 
more  seriously  now  with  you  than  ever  be- 
fore; and  he  persuaded  you  to  try  his  way 
for  a  month,  and  if  it  seemed  not  better  for 
the  child  you  would  go  back  to  yours  with- 
out more  protest  from  himself. 

At  first  it  was  very  hard,  but  steady  prac- 
tice made  it  easier  in  time.  "  No,  Donald, 
you  can't  have  any  more  sugar " — this  the 
next  day. 

"Why  not?" 

You  did  not  answer. 
Why-y-y  no-o-ot  ?  " 
Never  mind  why  not.     You  can't  have 

It. 

A  roar;  but  this  time  Fred  was  there. 
"  Donald  !  "  he  called  across  the  table,  "  will 
you  stop,  or  shall  papa  take  you  upstairs, 
just  like  yesterday  ?  " 

The  child  stopped  suddenly  on  the  half- 
cry  and  gazed  through  tears  at  his  father, 
who  looked  at  him  sternly.  Donald  turned 
to  you  :  "  Mamma,  wipe  Donnie's  tears." 

That 

7>] 


The     J^  other-  Artist 

That  was  the  last  conflict  for  sugar  in  his 
father's  presence.  The  struggle  was  much 
harder  when  you  and  Donald  were  alone ; 
for  you  had  taught  him  skill  in  argument, 
and  indeed,  yourself,  too  ;  and  once  the  habit 
formed,  much  time  was  necessary  to  get  both 
you  and  him  out  of  it  when  there  was  not 
the  restraint  of  the  masculine  presence. 
However,  the  month  saw  great  improve- 
ment, and  your  old  ways  have  never  been 
resumed.  You  learned  then  that  the  time 
for  reasoning  with  a  child  is  when  he  has  no 
immediate  personal  interest  in  the  matter. 

As  the  children  grew  and  began,  even  in 
tender  years,  to  come  into  more  companion- 
ship with  you,  occasions  became  rarer,  day 
by  day,  when  they  desired  to  act  contrary  to 
the  general  tone  of  home.  They  often  erred 
from  inadvertence,  even  as  adults  do ;  but 
little  faults  were  overlooked,  as  grown  per- 
sons overlook  each  other's ;  the  serious  ones 
were  analyzed  with  them,  and  consequences 
of  continuing  such  a  course  were  pointed  out. 
You  also  learned  many  a  lesson  new  to  your- 
self; 

[72 


The    Mother  -Artist 

self;  among  them,  that  in  case  of  unreason 
and  rebellion  in  the  child,  you  often,  not  he, 
were  the  one  who  had  set  the  example  in  un- 
reasonableness. Whenever  you  discovered 
this  you  instantly  retracted  that  which  had 
been  wrong  in  your  requirement  or  unjust  in 
your  rebuke ;  for  you  saw  that  you  cannot 
teach  justice  to  your  child  by  means  of  an  in- 
justice of  your  own  to  him.  Many  a  rough 
place  has  been  made  smooth  and  the  child 
drawn  nearer  to  you  in  genuine  love  by  your 
simple  words,  "  I  was  wrong."  You  felt  the 
blessing  of  it  one  day  when  you  heard  Tom 
say,  "  Mother  always  gives  a  feller  a  chance  !  " 
As  you  looked  around  upon  the  mothers 
that  you  knew,  and  studied  the  effects  of  dif- 
ferent modes  of  treatment  of  their  children, 
you  added,  one  by  one,  rich  treasures  to  your 
store  of  knowledge  of  the  souls  of  childhood. 
Of  these,  one  was  that  an  unconsciousness  of 
wrong  in  doing  is  a  part  of  that  unconscious- 
ness of  self  which  makes  the  angelic  inno- 
cence of  these  little  ones.  But  we  adults, 
not  recognizing  how  much  harm  wie  do,  work 

unceasingly 

73  ] 


The    ?I  other-  Artist 

unceasingly  to  form  within  the  child  the  habit 
of  a  constant  thought  of  self.  The  ignorance 
of  wrong  in  some  act  that  is  to  us  a  monstrous 
thing  was  illustrated  to  yourself  one  day  in 
an  amusing  incident  told  by  a  friend  :  "  I  was 
out,"  she  said,  "  and  when  I  came  home. 
Doctor,"  her  husband,  "  said  to  me,  *  Robert 
has  been  naughty.  I  have  put  him  to  bed. 
You  must  not  sympathize  with  him.'  Then 
he  told  me  the  story.  Robert  cried  out  when 
he  saw  me,  '  I  don't  see  why  I  have  to  be 
put  to  bed  ;  1  only  blew  soap  bubbles  through 
a  pipe,  and  Ben  and  Sam  they  just /)o«r(?^  out 
water  by  the  pailful ! '  *  But,  Robbie,'  I  said, 
*  you  told  a  lie!'  He  stopped  crying  and 
looked  at  me  with  wide-open  eyes.  *  Did  I  ? 
Did  I  tell  a  lie  ?  Oh,  well,  it's  all  right  then  ; 
I'll  stay  here  all  day.'  So  he  settled  himself 
down,entirely  willing  to  take  his  punishment." 
You  laughed  with  her  in  thinking  of  the 
child,  so  ready  for  his  spiritual  cleansing,  di- 
rectly he  was  conscious  of  the  blackness  of 
his  sin ;  but  it  impressed  you  greatly.  So 
many  times  you  had  discovered  in  your  chil- 
dren 

[74 


The    Mother-  Artist 

dren  this  same  unconsciousness  that  they  had 
fallen  into  error.  You  asked  yourself  the 
question,  and  you  and  Fred  discussed  It  se- 
riously,— Is  punishment  the  best  means  for 
meeting  inadvertent  fault?  Is  an  uncon- 
scious lie  more  dangerous  to  the  growth  than 
the  self-consciousness  forced  on  a  child  by 
constant  reprimands  and  punishments?  The 
sin  of  lying  is  a  monstrous  thing ;  but  equal 
in  enormity  is  the  consciousness  of  self  in 
eyery  deed  one  does.  All  free  and  generous 
acts  are  bound  in  chains  by  the  accompany- 
ing thought  of  one's  own  part  in  the  doing. 
All  spontaneity  of  thought  is  checked  by  this 
same  eyil.  The  enormity  of  it  is  plain : 
If  thought  of  others  is  the  angelic  life,  then 
thought  of  self  must  be  the  opposite.  Self- 
consciousness  is  the  besetting  sin  of  Ameri- 
cans, especially  in  the  Northern  United 
States,  and  is  cherished  by  us  as  if  it  were  a 
yirtue,  and  nurtured  by  us — indeed,  called 
into  life  almost — within  the  souls  of  children, 
who  when  they  come  from  God  haye  all  the 
self-unconsciousness  of  angels. 

Another 

75] 


The    Nother-  Artist 

Another  incident,  quite  different,  affected 
you  most  strongly.      Calling   one  afternoon 
upon  a  friend,  her  little  child  of  three  came 
to  the  parlor  where  you  sat  waiting  for  her 
mother.     She  had  a  doll  clasped  in  her  arms, 
and  was  soon  prattling  happily,  as  children 
will  to  those  who  love  them.     She  especially 
liked  your  dainty  gloves,  and  stroked  them 
softly  as  she  talked  with  you ;  but  when  the 
mother   came  she   said,   "  Don't    touch   her 
gloves ;  you  will  soil   them."      But  you  had 
allowed   her  playing  with  them  before,  and 
the  child  did  not  hear  her  mother's  words. 
Again  she  spoke,  quite  sternly,  but  still  the 
baby  did  not  hear.     Then  a  third  time  the 
command  was  given,  "  Mamie,  if  you  do  that 
again  I  will  take  the  doll  away,  and  you  can't 
have    her    any    more."       You   watched    the 
struggle  in  the  baby  mind  to  free  itself  from 
absorption  in  playing  with  your  glove.      It 
was  not  quick  enough,  however,  to  gain  the 
victory,  and  just  once  more  you  felt  the  little 
touch  upon  your  hand;  then  it  stopped;  but 
the   mother   had    already   risen,   and   calmlv 

taking 

[76 


The    ?I other- Artist 

taking  the  doll  from  the  child's  arms  she 
threw  it  into  the  open  fire.  Never,  to  the 
last  day  of  your  life,  will  you  cease  to  hear 
at  times  the  cry  of  torture  that  burst  from 
the  baby  heart.  In  agony  the  little  one 
stamped  and  screamed.  Would  not  the 
mother  have  done  the  same  if  some  one  had 
suddenly  thrown  her  child  into  the  fire? 
Immediately  the  baby  was  taken  from  the 
room,  and  you  sat  struggling  with  your  tears 
and  your  fierce  anger  toward  the  mother. 
When  she  returned,  her  face,  which  was  very 
beautiful,  had  the  relentless  calm  of  fate. 
"  Baby  has  many  dolls,"  she  said,  "  but  that 
one  was  her  favorite.  She  must  learn  to 
mind,  though,  and  to  control  that  frightful 
temper."  You  got  away  as  fast  as  possible. 
You  thought  of  all  the  happy  prattle  of  the 
child  before  the  mother  had  come  down,  and 
how  you  had  loved  the  feeling  of  the  little 
hand  through  your  glove.  You  knew  that 
your  encouragement  had  caused  her  mind  to 
be  absorbed  so  that  she  could  not  get  it 
fixed  on  what  the   mother  said.     And   vou 

wondered 

7  7] 


The    Nother- Artist 

wondered  if  the  child  would  hate  her  mother 
all  her  life,  as  you  felt  that  she  must  hate 
her  at  that  moment.  If  not,  the  other  thing 
must  happen :  with  the  murder  of  her  love 
for  her  doll-child  was  slain  some  power  of 
loving,  and  all  through  life  her  soul  would 
walk  a  cripple  through  the  world.  And 
when  you  contrasted  in  your  mind  the  relent- 
less calm  upon  the  mother's  face  and  the 
shrieking  agony  of  the  tortured  child,  you 
wondered  it  anyone  could  question  which 
temper  was  the  deadliest,  or  whose  the  real 
persistence  in  gaining  her  own  end.  When 
you  were  calmer  you  were  able  to  do  more 
justice  to  the  mother,  by  recognizing  her 
self-deception  in  supposing  that  cruelty  to 
her  child  was  duty,  and  in  not  seeing  that 
more  of  self-will  was  in  her  own  act  than  the 
little  one  manifested  in  her  absorption  with 
the  soft  prettiness  of  the  glove.  But  you 
were  shocked  out  of  your  charitable  mood  a 
little  after  when  the  mother  explained  to  you 
that  she  showed  the  child,  as  soon  as  she 
was   calm,  that    it    was    for   her,   the    child's 

good, 

[78 


The    N other- Artist 

good,  she  did  the  heartless  thing.  The 
thought  flashed  across  your  mind  how  fitly 
the  child  might  have  answered  what  your 
little  Fanny  said  to  you  when  you  had  told 
her  once  that  she  must  learn  to  give  up. 
"  No,  mamma,"  she  whimpered,  "  I  don't 
want  to  learn  to  give  up  !  You  give  up ! 
Why   can't   you   learn   to   give    up  ?     Papa, 

come  here  and  make  mamma  learn  to  give 

»> 
up. 

Since  you  did  not  feel  at  liberty  to  lay 
before  your  beautiful  friend  this  true  wisdom 
from  the  heart  of  your  three-year-old  baby, 
you  turned  away  with  very  little  answer,  think- 
ing that  she  had  added  another  cruelty  to  all 
the  rest.  You  recovered  your  charity  again 
in  time,  for  this  mother  was  a  very  faithful 
one,  according  to  her — darkness  ;  and  who 
has  much  of  lightness  after  all  ?  But  you 
thanked  God  that  your  children  never  had 
been  put  to  torture  such  as  this ;  and  you 
registered  a  vow  anew  that  "  discipline " 
should  never  gain  an  entrance  to  your  home. 

The  lack  of  it  mourned  by  your  friends 

has 

7  9] 


The    Tlother- Artist 

has  not  borne  as  yet  the  fruit  predicted  by 
them.  Said  Donald  :  "  Some  boys  wanted 
me  to  go  rob  a  cherry  tree.  I  wouldn't  go. 
I  don't  see  any  fun  in  it."  Tom  had  more 
of  the  marauder's  spirit  when  the  time  arrived 
for  his  testing.  "  Papa,"  he  said,  "  the  boys 
asked  me  to  get  pears  off  of  Mr.  Greene's 
trees,  but  Don  put  in  his  oar,  and  then  the 
thing  was  all  up.  Mr.  Greene's  a  stingy  old 
thing  anyway,  and  the  pears  are  all  rotting 
like  anything  'cause  he's  gone  away  anyhow, 
and  his  folks  have  gone  off  with  him.  A 
few  pears  won't  hurt  him.  We  weren't  going 
to  take  many  anyway.  Don  better  keep  his 
mouth  shut  next  time." 

Fred  seldom,  if  ever,  remonstrated  with 
the  children  ;  if  he  had  had  such  a  habit  they 
never  would  have  revealed  themselves  to  him 
in  this  free  fashion.  He  quietly  now  com- 
menced to  talk  of  Mr.  Greene  as  if  he  had 
no  opinion  in  the  matter  different  from  that  of 
Tom.  He  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Greene 
had  gone,  or  any  of  his  family  ;  he  was  sorry 
to  hear  of  his  stinginess.     Questions  followed. 

When 

[80 


The    Tlother- Artist 

When  had  the  Greenes  set  off,  and  for  what 
place?  In  what  particular  cases  that  Tom 
knew  of  personally  had  Mr.  Greene  acted  in 
a  stingy  way  ?  The  outcome  was  that  Tom 
admitted,  one  by  one,  that  all  the  stated  facts 
about  the  gentleman  were  hearsay,  wholly. 
"  The  fellers  said  "  this,  that  and  the  other, 
until  the  final  proof  was  that  "  the  fellers 
said  "  it  all ;  and  further  conversation  brought 
to  light  the  fact  that  Mr.  Greene  and  several 
of  his  family  had  been  seen  in  town  late  that 
afternoon,  with  not  the  least  appearance  of 
going  on  a  journey  or  of  having  been  on  one  ; 
also,  that  Mr.  Greene,  far  from  being  stingy, 
had  borne  himself  in  several  noted  cases  as 
a  remarkably  liberal-hearted  person.  Then 
with  the  same  skill,  the  father  drew  out  the 
child's  opinion  that  life  in  the  community 
involves  necessity  for  respect  for  the  property 
of  others  ;  and  that  there  is  no  third  course, 
middle  between  the  taking  and  the  not  taking 
of  a  neighbor's  goods.  The  end  was  that 
Tom  saw,  as  if  from  his  own  thought,  that 
"  there  isn't  much  fun  in  stealing,  after  all." 

He 

8l] 


The    Tlother- Artist 

He  had  not  called  it  stealing  at  the  first,  and 
when  he  got  to  that  you  knew  that  he  was 
safe.  He  never  showed  an  interest  in  ma- 
rauding afterward. 

So  it  has  been  throughout.  Analysis  of 
life's  questions  with  the  children,  considered 
from  the  principles  of  right,  is  leading  them 
to  do  the  same,  unconsciously,  for  themselves. 
As  a  rule,  they  are  respectful,  affectionate, 
kind  to  one  another,  helpful  and  thoughtful. 
Donald  naturally  leads  in  judging  of  prin- 
ciples, and  the  others  follow,  learning  step 
by  step.  You  are  right  in  being  satisfied 
that  all  this  conduces  to  their  growth  far 
more  than  "  discipline." 


[8  a 


The  Mother-Artist  \ 

VII.    The  Working  Out  of  Natural  Law 

For  thorns  nature  returns  us  thorns,  not  blessings 


The  Mother-Artist 

VII.    The  Working  Out  of  Natural  Law 

THERE  is  a  difFerence,  however, between 
the  "  discipHning  "  of  a  child  for  inad- 
vertent errors  or  for  his  natural  excite- 
ment under  wounded  feehng,  and  the  meeting 
wisely  his  deliberate  disobedience,  lying,  or  de- 
ception. The  purpose,  rightly,  of  all  punish- 
ment is  to  impress  upon  him  the  great  law 
that  results  inevitably  follow  action.  You  will 
never  forget  how  faithfully  you  and  Fred  stud- 
ied to  apply  this  law  when  penalty  was  neces- 
sary. Perhaps  the  severest  case  that  you  ever 
had  was  the  escapade  of  little  Tom  when  he 
was  less  than  nine  years  old.  His  was  the  most 
venturesome  spirit  of  all  your  children,  and 
it  was  natural  that  among  other  tests  of  the 
resources  which   life    presented    to    him,   he 

should 

8s] 


\ 


The    7i other- Artist 

should  try  to  find  what  lying  and  deceit 
might  bring  to  him  of  profit ;  and  this, 
though  in  the  depths  of  his  heart  he  was 
honest  as  the  daylight.  One  Saturday  he 
said  to  you  that  Mr.  Long  had  asked  him 
to  come  that  afternoon  to  see  his  little  son, 
who  was  about  Tom's  age.  Invitations  to 
the  Long  home  had  been  given  before  for 
parties,  and  though  you  were  surprised  that 
Tom  should  be  invited  alone,  as  no  particu- 
lar intimacy  existed  between  your  two  fami- 
lies, it  did  not  cross  your  mind  to  doubt  his 
word.  When  he  came  home  you  asked 
about  his  visit,  and  he  gave  you  an  account 
in  quite  minute  detail  of  the  good  time 
h^  had  had  with  Oscar  Long  that  after- 
noon, and  what  they  had  been  playing.  It 
flashed  upon  you  once,  for  a  moment,  that 
he  looked  very  flushed  and  more  be-tumbled 
as  to  hair  and  clothes  than  such  a  quiet  visit 
seemed  to  warrant;  but  Tom  was  always  one 
of  the  much  be-tumbled  kind,  and  so  the 
momentary  thought  made  no  permanent  im- 
pression.     He  seemed,   however,  rather   se- 


nous. 


[8  6 


The    N other- Artist 

rious,  and  went  to  bed  quite  early,  another 
curious  happening;  for  he  was  usually  the 
one  who  fought  off  sleep  the  longest,  and 
resisted  the  bed  hour  as  his  most  deadly 
enemy. 

Mr.  Long  was  not  a  frequent  visitor,  but 
happening  to  pass  that  Sunday  afternoon, 
next  day,  he  dropped  in  for  a  call.  As  he 
was  leaving  Tom  chanced  to  come  into  the 
room,  and  Mr.  Long  asked,  pleasantly : 
"  Can't  you  come  over  some  afternoon,  Tom, 
to  see  Oscar  ?  You  needn't  always  wait  to 
be  invited  to  a  party,  need  you  ?  " 

Tom  blushed  and  stammered  out  a 
"Thank  you,"  and  ran  away.  Mr.  Long 
laughingly  remarked  upon  the  bashfulness 
of  children,  and  took  his  leave.  You  were 
bewildered,  and  sent  immediately  for  Tom, 
and  summoned  Fred  as  well.  The  child 
stood  before  you  with  hands  in  pockets,  head 
hanging  down,  working  uneasily  upon  the 
carpet  with  the  toe  of  his  boot.  He  told  the 
story  now  which  evidently  was  the  true  one. 
A    boy,    Ralph    Norris,    whose    father   was 

away, 

87] 


The    Mother-Artist 

away,  had  begged  Tom  and  two  other  boys 
to  come  to  the  pasture  where  the  Norris 
horses  were  feeding  and  try  their  luck  with 
an  unbroken  colt.  This  was  a  strictly  for- 
bidden thing  to  Ralph,  and  so  more  attrac- 
tive to  all  the  boys.  He  assured  them  that 
his  father  did  not  know  how  tame  the  colt 
was,  that  there  was  no  danger,  not  the  least. 
They  evidently  had  not  needed  much  over- 
urging.  They  went  and  tried  their  luck. 
They  all  were  thrown  in  turn,  but  boys  are 
made  of  India  rubber  stuff,  as  everybody 
knows,  and  they  were  not  greatly  hurt.  Per- 
haps what  saved  them  finally  from  doing 
more  daring  things  than  they  had  yet  at- 
tempted was  a  slight  cut  which  Ralph  got 
on  the  forehead,  and  the  consciousness  that 
cuts  must  be  accounted  for  at  home  suggested 
that  perhaps  the  wiser  way  would  be  to  dis- 
continue this  especial  pastime  for  the  after- 
noon. 

This  was  the  tale,  in  boy's  version,  that 
Tom  told,  and  when  he  had  finished  there 
was  silence  for  awhile;  he  shamefaced,   you 

and 


[88 


The    71  other-  Artist 

and  Fred  nonplussed  with  the  so  suddenly 
revealed  depravity  of  the  hitherto,  as  you  had 
known  it,  honest  baby  heart.  At  last  Fred 
spoke  :  "  Do  you  think  your  mother  and  I 
would  have  lied  to  you,  Tom,  as  you  have 
lied  to  us?  Was  it  treating  us  fair,  as  we 
have  always  treated  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  slowly  answered  Tom,  his  face 
flushing  a  deeper  shade,  "I  know  it.  It 
was  pretty  mean  behavement." 

"Yes,"  replied  his  father,  his  voice  more 
stern  even  than  he  intended  from  the  fear  of 
smiling  at  Tom's  unusual  word,  "  it  was. 
And  you  will  suffer  for  this,  Tom,  and  I  am 
sorry  for  you.  That's  all,  now.  You  may 
go."  And  Tom,  surprised  that  if  he  was  to 
suffer  he  was  not  told  how,  looked  up  doubt- 
ingly,  and  then  slowly  left  the  room. 

You  and  Fred  in  talking  of  the  matter 
came  to  a  decision  which  was  summed  up  in 
his  words  :  "  The  way  to  make  an  impression 
on  him,  a  real  one,  is  to  watch  our  opportuni- 
ties, and  when  a  chance  comes  for  some  pleas- 
ure which  he  could  have  had  if  we  could  have 

trusted 

89] 


The    Toother- Artist 

trusted  him,  to  refuse  it  because  we  cannot 
know  whether  he  is  telHng  the  truth  or  not. 
This  is  the  legitimate  penalty  which  follows 
lying, — loss  of  the  confidence  of  others." 

You  saw  the  danger  possible  to  result  in 
the  crushing  of  the  child's  spirit  by  making 
him  feel  that  he  was  always  under  penalty  for 
this  one  fault,  even  when  he  told  the  truth ; 
but  on  further  talking  you  found  the  way  for 
meeting  this  phase  of  the  difficulty,  and  then 
you  waited  for  your  opportunity. 

It  was  not  long  before  it  came.  One 
morning,  just  as  Fred  was  leaving  for  the 
city,  Tom  ran  in  :  "  Oh,  mamma,  Mr.  Carey 
(the  next  door  neighbor)  says  I  may  have  a 
ride  in  his  automobile  if  I  will  come  down 
to  his  store  at  five  o'clock.  May  I  ?  He 
wants  me  to  tell  him  before  he  goes,  in  an 
hour."  This  was  in  the  first  days  of  auto- 
mobiles, and  Mr.  Carey's  was  the  only  one  in 
your  town. 

Fred  turned  to  you,  and  under  cover  of  a 
second  good  by,  he  said  :  "  Now  stand  firm, 
dear.      Don't  let  your  sympathies   run  away 

with 


[9 


The    ?I  other-  Artist 

with  you.  It  will  never  have  to  be  done  again 
if  you  do  it  thoroughly  this  time.  I  can't  stay, 
and  besides,  you  can  manage  better  alone." 

"  May  I  go  ?  "  Tom  repeated  eagerly,  as 
his  father  left  the  room. 

"  Come  to  me,  Tom.  How  can  I  know 
that  Mr.  Carey  has  asked  you  to  ride  in  his 
automobile?" 

Tom  looked  at  you,  puzzled  :  "  Why  he 
did,  mamma.  You  can  ask  him.  He's  right 
there  on  his  piazza." 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  want  him  to  know 
that  I  can't  trust  my  little  boy's  word  ? " 

The  child  gazed  still  more  earnestly  at  you, 
as  if  trying  to  think  what  you  might  mean  ; 
and  then  the  boy  face  flushed  as  the  con- 
sciousness came  that  you  were  doubting  him 
because  of  his  doings  of  a  certain  afternoon. 

"  I  am  telling  the  truth  now,  mamma." 

"How  do  I  know  it?  1  thought  you 
were  that  other  day,  and  all  that  you  told  me 
were  big  lies." 

"  This  isn't ;  truly,  truly,  mamma." 

"  Perhaps  not,  but  I  don't  know  how  to 
tell  the  difference.      How  can  I  ?  " 

The 

91] 


The    Nother  -Artist 

The  look  was  anxious  now. 

"  But,  mamma,  can't  I  go  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  any  way.  I  should  be  ashamed 
to  ask  Mr.  Carey  whether  he  really  invited 
you." 

"  But  he  didy  mamma,  he  did !  Let  me 
go,  please,  mamma.  I  never  rode  in  an 
automobile  in  all  my  life.  Mamma,  cant  I 
go  ? "  The  tone  grew  more  alarmed  and 
excited  as  the  impossibility  of  making  you 
believe  him  came  to  him  with  the  full  force 
of  all  it  meant  to  him. 

"  What  way  can  there  be  for  me  to  be  sure 
that  this  is  not  just  like  your  telling  me  that 
Mr.  Long  had  invited  you  to  go  to  see 
Oscar?" 

The  child  stamped  with  excitement  and 
grief.  "  You  might  let  me  go  !  You  know 
he  invited  me  !  " 

"  Do  I,  Tom,  dear  ?  I  am  longing  to  trust 
you.  Tell  me  how  I  can  know  what  the 
difference  is  between  this  and  the  other 
time." 

The  child  for  one  short  moment  searched 

your 

[9  2 


The     N  other-  Artist 

your  face  in  agony  and  then  threw  himself 
upon  the  floor  and  cried  out  between  deep 
sobs,  "  When  I  do  tell — the  truth — you  won't 
— believe — me  !      He  did  ask  me;  he  did !  " 

You  let  his  grief  expend  itself  while  you 
were  thinking  rapidly.  As  the  sobs  grew 
quieter,  Tom  called,  "  Mamma." 

"  Well,  Tom." 

"Are  you  always  going  to  think  I'm 
lying?  Have  I  got  to  stay  at  home  from 
everywhere  if  you  don't  hear  folks  ask  me  to 
go? 

"  Come  here,  dear ;  "  and  when  he  came, 
you  pushed  the  brown  hair  back  from  the 
hot  little  face.  "We  can  fix  it  for  another 
time,  but  not  this ;  there  is  no  way  for  you  to 
go  to-day.  Hush,  dear,  listen.  Have  you  for- 
gotten what  papa  said  to  you  that  Sunday  when 
we  found  out  how  you  had  deceived  us  ?  He 
told  you  that  sometime  you'd  suffer  for  what 
you  had  done  that  day.  He  knew  that  there 
would  be  a  time  when  something  just  like 
this  would  come  up  ;  for  of  course  we  can't 
trust  you  again  till  we  know  you  don't  de- 
ceive 

9  3^ 


The    Mother-  Artist 

ceive  any  more.  Now  we  will  do  this  :  You 
go  to  Mr.  Carey  and  tell  him  that  mamma 
can't  let  you  go  riding  to-day,  and  thank  him 
for  asking  you  ;  then  the  next  time  I  meet 
him  I  shall  thank  him  besides,  and  then  I 
shall  know  by  his  answer  whether  he  really 
invited  you.  And  if  you  will  promise  me 
to  be  a  more  truthful  boy  in  the  future,  and 
I  find  this  is  true,  I  will  trust  you  next  time 
and  always,  as  long  as  you  tell  me  the  truth." 

Tom  leaned  his  head  against  your  shoul- 
der, and  the  tears  flowed  fast  again,  but 
quietly.  Finally,  he  said,  "If  you  believe 
my  promise  if  I  stay  at  home,  why  can't  you 
believe  it  and  let  me  go  \  " 

But  since  the  time  of  Donald's  sophistries 
about  the  sugar  you  had  cultivated  a  habit  of 
shunning  this  kind  of  argument;  therefore 
you  had  no  difficulty  in  answering:  "I  can- 
not talk  with  you  about  that  now,  Tom. 
Dry  your  eyes ;  Mr.  Carey  will  be  going 
soon.  You  must  go  over  to  tell  him  im- 
mediately." 

Once  more  he  gave  way.      His  arms  went 

round 


[94 


The    Nother-  Artist 

round  your  neck.  "  Isn't  there  any  other 
way,  mamma?  I'll  stay  shut  up  alone  all 
day  to-morrow  if  you'll  let  me  go  this 
afternoon." 

"  No,  dear,  there's  no  more  to  be  said. 
Will  you  go  ?  " 

But  again  he  appealed :  "  Mamma,  won't 
you  go  tell  him  ?  Then  you  will  know  right 
away  that  I  have  told  you  the  truth." 

"  Yes,  I  will  go  if  you  say  so.  But  just 
think  for  a  moment.  Only  yesterday  you 
were  reading  of  soldiers,  and  wished  you 
could  be  one,  so  that  you  might  have  the 
chance  to  be  brave.  Now  if  you  can  do 
this  that  I  ask,  you  will  be  just  as  brave  as 
any  man  soldier  who  ever  went  into  the 
battle  and  faced  all  the  guns  of  the  enemy. 
Wouldn't  you  like  it,  Tom,  dear,  to  be 
strong  and  a  hero  ?  " 

The  tears  stopped  now,  and  Tom  looked 
at  you  with  an  expression  on  his  face  of  a 
new-wakened  thought.  "  Would  it,  mam- 
ma ?  "  he  said  eagerly.  "  Would  I  really  be 
a  brave  soldier  if  I  did  this  ?  " 

**Thc 

95] 


The     Toother- Artist 

"The  best  kind  of  one,  mv  brave  soldier 
boy!" 

"  Then  I'll  do  it.  You  watch  me  at  the 
window,  mamma,  and  see  me  march  up  to  the 
enemy."  He  laughed  now,  and  seized  his 
hat  and  set  off  on   his  soldier  duty. 

You  watched,  as  he  had  asked,  and  you 
saw  him  marching  to  the  time  of  a  tune  he 
whistled,  with  steady  step ;  but  when  he 
neared  the  house  he  faltered  for  a  moment, 
and  then  braced  up  and  went  up  the  steps 
and  gav^e  his  message.  His  head  was  held 
erect,  and  he  looked  without  flinching  into 
the  tace  of  the  gentleman  who  sat  on  the 
piazza  with  his  newspaper.  Tom  evidently 
made  his  words  as  few  as  possible,  but  you 
saw  the  gentleman  cordially  shake  him  bv 
the  hand ;  and  then  the  boy  ran  home  as 
fast  as  possible,  and  right  into  your  arms, 
and  cried  again,  quietly,  but  deeply.  Your 
own  nerves,  overstrained,  gave  way  now 
that  the  victory  was  gained,  and  there  was  no 
more  need  ot  hiding  your  real  feelings  from 
Tom  from  fear  that  he  would  think  that  he 

could 

[96 


The     Toother- Artist 

could  use  them  to  gain  his  end ;  and  you 
leaned  your  cheek  against  the  tumbled-up 
brown  hair,  and  did  not  try  to  check  the 
tears  that  came  almost  as  freely  as  his  own. 
Suddenly  he  looked  up.  "  Are  you  crying, 
mamma?     What  for?" 

"  Don't  you  know  that  it  hurts  mamma  to 
deny  you  a  pleasure,  and  to  feel  she  cannot 
trust  vou  ?  " 

The  loving  spirit  of  the  impetuous  child 
was  fully  roused  at  this  new  view  of  the  mat- 
ter, and  he  said  quickly  :  "  Don't  cry  any  more, 
mamma.  I  didn't  know  you  cared  like  that. 
You  can  trust  me,  mamma ;  I  never  shall  tell 
a  lie  again.  I  felt  awful  mean  all  the  time  I  was 
doing  it.  Wasn't  it  funny,  I  couldn't  look 
right  at  you  when  I  came  home  that  afternoon, 
and  I  went  off  to  bed  as  soon  as  I  could  be- 
cause you  kept  looking  at  me,  and  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  you  knew  that  what  I  told  vou 
wasn't  true." 

"  Why  did  you  do  it,  Tom  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  mamma.  I  guess  'twas 
because   I    thought  it  v>-ould  be    such    awful 

good 

9  7  ] 


The     H  other- Artist 

good  fun  to  try  a  colt  that  Ralph's  father  said 
would  break  our  necks  if  we  got  on  his  back. 
It  was  awful  good,  fun."  Tom  drew  a  long 
breath,  as  if  renouncing  with  a  last  regret  one 
of  the  highest  sweetnesses  of  life.  "  But  I 
won't  ever  lie  to  you  again.  It  don't  pay, 
does  it?" 

"  You  surely  can  never  be  happy  in  doing 
such  things.  It  is  dreadful  to  feel  that  you 
can't  look  mamma  in  the  face,  and  papa,  and 
that  you  are  mean  to  us  when  we  have  al- 
ways been  honest  with  you.  And  besides 
you  have  to  lose  many  pleasures  like  this  of 
to-day  just  because  we  can't  tell  whether  or 
not  you  are  speaking  the  truth.  I  shouldn't 
think  riding  a  colt  that  might  break  your  neck 
at  any  moment  would  pay  for  all  that." 

Tom  looked  very  serious.  Suddenly  he 
said :  "  It's  just  like  the  boy  who  cried 
*  Wolf,'  isn't  it  ?  Nobody  believed  him  when 
the  wolf  really  did  come.  I'm  just  like  him. 
But  I  never  will  be  again,  mamma,  never." 


[98 


The  Mother-Artist  x 

VIIL     Cares,  Confusion,  Disorder 

The  baby's  toys  left  by  him  on  the  floor 
Have  more  of  living  art  in  them  than  all 
The  galleries  of  all  the  world 


The   Mother-Artist 

Vni.     Cares,  Confusion,  Disorder 

IT  is  true  that  you  always  say  that  your 
married  Hfe  has  been  a  happy  one,  but 
generally  you  add  that  many  cares  have 
somewhat  thrust  the    happiness   aside,  even  \ 

altogether  at  times,  and  the  noise  of  children 
and  confusion  of  their  chatter  and  childish 
heedlessness  have  wearied  nerves  already  worn 
upon  by  duties  crowded  into  too  small  time 
and  space.  But,  little  mother,  it  is  so  the 
artist  works, — the  painter,  sculptor,  music- 
maker  and  the  poet.  You  are  the  greatest 
artist  of  them  all,  for  what  you  work  upon 
is  human  life.  The  noise  and  the  disorder 
of  the  children,  they  disturb  you,  do  you 
say  ?  Why  is  it,  then,  that  you  enjoy  the 
bustle  of  a  suburban  dwelling  place  ?      For 

often 

I  O  I  ] 


The     Mother-  Artist 

often  you  have  said  that  you  would  Hve  in 
this,  your  chosen  town,  upon  a  crust,  rather 
than  in  the  quiet  of  the  country.  Yet  here 
the  rattle  of  the  street  car  is  not  wholly  want- 
ing either  day  or  night.  The  venders  and 
the  newsboys  make  the  morning  hideous 
with  their  cries.  Yet,  when  you  are  longing 
for  a  day  of  pleasure,  toward  what  do  your 
thoughts  turn  ?  To  the  quiet  country  place, 
where  birds  and  bees  make  all  the  sounds, 
except  for  an  occasional  reaper  in  the  field 
or  whirr  of  mill  ?  Oh,  no,  this  is  not  what 
you  think  of,  for  you  are  a  born  lover  of  the 
city.  You  crave  a  day  of  leisure  in  New 
York  without  the  shopping  of  your  usual 
trips.  But  even  with  that  you  always  pass 
the  hours  quite  happily,  although  you  do 
grow  weary  in  the  end.  You  never  heed  the 
din  that  fills  the  air  of  the  metropolis.  Often 
you  have  longed  to  spend  the  months  of 
winter  in  the  city  ;  you  have  declared  that 
this  would  be  the  perfect  life, — the  city  win- 
ter and  suburban  summer.  Yet,  though  you 
lived  away  from  busy  centers,  in  quiet  parts. 


vou 


[102 


The    N  other- Artist 

you  would  have  more  noise,  perhaps,  than 
in  your  suburbs.  Are  not  the  merry  sounds 
of  children  at  their  play  more  musical  than 
city  noises  ?  and  even  children's  discord  than 
clang  of  trolley  bell  and  shriek  of  engine  and 
the  wagon's  rattle  over  stony  streets  ? 

And  the  disorder;  v.hat  is  it  you  call  that? 
The  baby's  toys  upon  the  floor  ?  Why  be 
ashamed  of  them  when  Mrs.  H.,  your  friend 
of  wealth  and  elegance,  calls  at  your  home  ? 
The  Noah's  animals  one  day  were  all  spread 
out  by  baby's  matchless  art.  The  lifeless 
things  had  taken  on  themselves  something 
of  baby-life,  imparted  by  the  little  hand.  A 
grace  had  fallen  over  them  ;  how,  you  did  not 
know.  If  an  adult  had  fixed  them  so,  they 
would  have  been  no  more  than  ill-formed 
wooden  things;  but  the  abounding  joy  of 
baby  in  his  play  had  somehow  altered  them, 
and  being  left  here  now,  when  he  had  gone  out 
for  his  daily  ride,  they  still  kept  with  them 
much  of  his  sweet  grace.  As  they  caught  the 
eye  one  involuntarily  felt  the  glow  that  baby 
presence  always  brings  to  any  woman's  being 

who 

103] 


\ 


The    Hother- Artist 

who  is  at  heart  a  mother.     Would  vou  de- 
prive  your  friend  of  that  ? 

You  do  not  see,  for  no  one  yet  has  known, 
the  highest  value  of  the  homely  floor.  It  is 
not  merely  to  be  walked  upon ;  it  is,  still 
more,  for  baby  and  his  toys.  It  is  so  long 
and  wide, — magnificently  large  for  every 
baby  need.  Guarded  by  its  walls,  there  is 
no  danger  of  his  falling  off.  Adults  have 
selfishly  monopolized  the  floor,  as  they  have 
many  another  gracious  thing,  and  always  to 
their  own  hurt.  If  we  would  have  the  glad- 
ness that  God  sends  with  every  baby  who  is 
born,  we  must  retrace  our  steps  and  share 
with  babyhood  the  things  that  are  by  right 
its  own.  Then  shall  we  know  the  gifts  they 
have  for  us.  We  think  that  babies  come 
with  empty  hands ;  oh,  no,  they  bring  us 
overflowing  wealth.  Just  as  of  old,  the  en- 
voy, when  he  traveled,  came  "  bearing  gifts  " 
from  his  great  master's  court,  so  baby  comes 
from  God's  own  courts  with  treasures  for  the 
courts  of  earth ;  but  we,  in  our  blind  zeal  for 
selfish  "  order,"  destroy  these  gifts,  and  lose 

the 

[104 


The    Mother- Artist 

the  grace  and  tenderness  and  peace  that 
would  be  Hke  the  air  and  sunshine  to  our 
souls  and  baby's.  So  we  are  stunted  in  our 
growth,  and  he  as  well. 

In  that  new  future  we  all  love  to  think  of, 
when  we  shall  understand  the  worth  of  life's 
best  things,  the  architect  will  no  doubt  plan 
the  floors  with  thought  direct  upon  the 
baby's  needs.  They  will  be  comfortable 
and  hygienic  in  their  build  for  this  very 
purpose.  Every  mother  may,  even  now, 
hasten  on  that  time  of  greater  good  by 
recognition  of  the  dignity  which  baby  and 
his  toys  confer  upon  the  floor  on  which  he 
plays.  When  you  show  a  caller  through 
your  garden  it  does  not  offend  her  dignity 
or  yours  that  she  must  step  with  care  along 
the  paths  which  happen  to  be  narrow,  and 
you  lead  her  around  the  plants  that  block 
her  way  and  feel  no  shame.  No  more  need 
you  when  baby's  toys  are  scattered  all  about. 
When  the  guest  enters,  your  air  of  graceful 
ease  may  tell  how  deep  the  recognition  is 
that  baby  is  a  blessing  in   the  home,  as  you 

say, 

105] 


The    Mother-  Artist 

say,  "We  all  know  that  where  a  baby  lives 
the  floor  belongs  to  him  as  much  as  to  any 
other  of  the  family." 

You  will  say,  perhaps,  that  it  is  the 
nursery  floor  that  is  his  own.  Yes,  if  you 
choose  to  have  one,  and  a  maid  or  any  person 
to^stay  with  him  there ;  if  not,  the  blessing 
is  an  added  one  which  gives  the  baby's 
presence  to  the  family  life.  Why  be  ashamed 
of  him  before  a  guest?  If  you  had  on  your 
wall  a  picture  of  a  baby  playing  with  his 
toys  upon  the  floor  by  a  Millet,  and  there 
were  no  copies  of  it,  your  callers  would  con- 
sider it  a  boon  to  be  allowed  to  walk  over 
any  kind  of  object,  and  even  over  each  other, 
to  get  a  glimpse  of  it.  Is  a  picture  of  more 
value  than  the  life  which  it  portrays  ? 

You  sometimes  speak  self-pityingly  of  the 
care  of  your  little  family  as  so  absorbing,  so 
full  of  anxious  thought.  It  is  absorbing, 
yes  ;  but  is  not  that  delightful  ?  What  could 
give  more  beauty  to  one's  life  than  an  ab- 
sorbing interest  in  great  work  ?  And  your 
work  is  one  of  the  greatest  in  the  world.     In 

what 
[  I   06 


The     Hother- Artist 

what  does  value  of  the  Hfe  consist  ?  Is  it  not 
in  feeling,  as  one  wakens  in  the  morning, 
that  something  large  depends  upon  one's 
self,  which  no  one  else  is  set  apart  to  do  ? 
And  this  is  care, — the  care  without  anxiety, 
which  every  person  of  character  seeks  and 
welcomes.  For  is  it  not  delightful  to 
know  the  value  that  we  are  to  this  great 
world  ?  Think — your  portion  is  one  part  of 
the  highest  work  that  can  be  done  by  woman, 
and  you  are  solely  appointed  to  perform  it ! 
What  would  you  have  ?  a  lower  service,  like 
that  of  lecturer  or  business  woman,  or  the 
grade  of  artist  who  works  only  with  material 
things  to  give  mankind  the  beautiful  con- 
ceptions of  her  spirit  ?  Would  these  less 
noble  tasks,  moreover,  be  free  from  care  if 
you  were  faithful  to  them  ?  Not  that  they 
are  not  noble,  every  one,  and  good  for 
women  who  have  not  the  highest,  or  who 
have  finished  motherhood  with  children. 
They  are  all  most  worthy  of  a  woman's  life ; 
but  there  are  ranks  in  nobleness  of  work,  and 
you  have  been  allowed  the  highest.     Your 


care. 


107] 


The    N  other-  Artist 

care,  if  It  is  in  truth  a  greater  than  the 
others,  is  likewise  gladder,  more  worth 
while. 

But  the  anxiety  in  all, — the  feeling  that  if 
your  children  come  short  of  what  you  think 
they  should,  or  go  astray,  you  are  responsi- 
ble. Ah,  stop  one  moment ;  here  you  over- 
step the  limits  of  your  humanhood.  God  is 
the  keeper  of  your  children's  souls,  not  you.  I 
Beyond  the  limits  of  your  best  endeavors 
you  have  no  further  right ;  and  when  you 
take  upon  yourself  anxiety  you  vitiate  all 
the  work  it  is  your  part  to  do.  Anxiety 
itself  will  ruin  your  child's  life  as  nothing 
else  can.  The  atmosphere  you  make  around 
you  is  the  strongest  influence  upon  him  for 
good  or  harm  that  you  can  bring  ;  stronger 
than  all  your  teaching ;  stronger  than  any- 
thing you  can  do.  Mere  words  and  deeds 
may  be  forgotten ;  but  your  atmosphere 
permeates  the  being  of  your  child,  just  as 
the  air  does  his  body.  If  it  is  happy,  one  in 
which  you  meet  him  in  glad  companionship 
and  peaceful  striving  for  his  highest  growth 

in 

[  I  o  8 


The    Tiother-  Artist 

in  all  his  God-sent  powers,  then  are  you 
doing  everything  that  a  mother  can  for  his 
welfare.  But  if  you  let  anxiety  come  in,  it 
blasts  his  faculties  as  truly  as  does  the  deadly 
breath  of  the  sirocco  the  bodies  of  men  and 
beasts.  The  simoon  is  not  poisonous,  you 
remember,  except  for  its  great  heat  and  dust. 
Exactly  thus,  anxiety  is  the  mother's  love 
intensified  to  morbid  temperature,  and  min- 
gling with  itself,  from  the  fierce  dread  of  what 
may  happen,  clouds  of  fine  dust  of  trivial 
exactions  as  precautionary  measures  which 
stifle  life. 

Your  weariness,  just  as  you  claim  yourself, 
comes  largely  from  this  artificial  weight,  this 
sense  of  responsibiHty  not  your  own.  It  is 
unworthy ;  it  stunts  your  soul's  growth  and 
harms  your  child.  You  need  not  for  one 
moment  claim  for  motherhood  this  burden 
of  anxiety  as  normal.  It  is  as  artificial  as  all 
unwholesome  cares ;  they  are  man-made. 
God  sends  us  only  gladness  in  every  walk  of 
life ;  the  burdens  we  make  largely  for  our- 
selves, or  else  we  increase  or  fail  to  throw 
aside  those  made  for  us  by  others. 

Therefore 
109] 


The    "Mother- Artist 

Therefore  your  real  cares  are  only  bless- 
ings, for  they  are  your  portion  of  the  world's 
great  work,  and  this  it  is  which  gives  your 
life  its  value.  Without  them  you  would  be 
a  nonentity,  a  mere  cumberer  of  the  earth. 
The  confusion, — it  is  but  the  happy  life  of 
childhood,  the  gladdest  of  all  things.  It  is 
not  sound  alone,  like  the  street  noises ;  it  is 
the  pure  outpouring  of  life  in  living  music. 
It  is  only  harmony,  if  you  will  hear  it  so. 
It  is  the  fine-toned  orchestra  accompanying 
the  living  drama.  The  small  bickerings, 
too,  of  these  small  folk  are  nothing  serious, 
if  you  will  meet  them  rightly  ;  they  are  your 
chance  for  teaching  them  one  of  the  greatest 
truths,  for  they  are  the  beginnings  of  the 
struggles  which  may  be  not  unhappy  if  you 
will  show  the  children  how  to  meet  them. 
Almost  every  struggle  of  our  lives  may  be 
transformed  into  the  mere  learning  how  to 
live,  as  an  apprentice  or  a  student  struggles 
for  his  education.  You  may  show  your 
children  that  these  same  experiences  may  be 
met  with  constant  avoidance  of  the  pain,  and 


I   I  o 


The   N  other-  Artist 

so  the  serious  side  of  life  may  come  to  be 
to  them  only  the  painless  training  of  the 
muscles  of  their  characters. 

And  the  disorder, — there  is  no  such  thing 
within  the  household  of  a  well-poised 
mother.  It  is  not  order  to  have  everything 
in  a  place  you  have  artificially  appointed  as 
its  own.  External  order  is  the  fitness  of 
material  things  for  spiritual  life.  As  a  large 
principle  to  start  upon,  it  does  consist  in 
having  some  place  assigned  for  each  article 
of  household  use  and  for  the  dress  of  all 
the  members.  But  it  is  rank  disorder  to 
insist  that  everything  shall  always  stay  in 
this  appointed  place ;  for,  many  times  some 
temporary  resting  place  for  it  saves  time  and 
thought  and  higher  life.  It  is  a  part  of 
growth  in  every  person's  character  to  make 
the  balance  true  between  a  real  and  artificial 
order ;  to  cast  away  the  kind  which  hinders, 
and  cherish  that  which  makes  for  higher 
living.  The  leaves  upon  the  ground,  the 
birds  upon  the  window  sill,  and  children's 
small  belongings  about  the  house,  at  times 

when 


The    J^other  -Artist 

when  they  are  fitting,  out  of  their  usual 
places,  are  all  a  part  of  care-free  nature's 
beauty. 

This  mode  alone  of  taking  those  things 
which  have  been  a  trouble  would  make  them 
blessings,  even  without  considering  how  much 
they  are  modified  by  your  richest  gifts  of  all. 
Other  artists  work  with  dead  materials,  which 
give  forth  no  response  except  what  the  artist 
feels  replying  to  him  out  of  the  spirit  he  has 
himself  put  into  the  work.  But  your  artistic 
materials  are  living.  Every  day,  and  many 
times  a  day,  the  soft  arms  around  you  teli  you 
of  their  love.  The  sweet  tones  caress  your 
ear  in  every  "  mamma "  that  strikes  upon 
them.  The  confidence  of  these  fresh  hearts 
in  your  superior  wisdom, — it  is  all  a  stimulus 
of  life  on  life.  And  then,  your  husband, — 
you  have  advice  from  him  in  your  perplexi- 
ties, comfort  in  hard  places,  and  personal  love 
and  admiration.  Your  motherhood  itself 
wakens  in  him  the  manhood's  tenderness. 
We  read  in  novels  of  the  lover's  deep-souled 
passion;    it  is  as  moonshine  unto  sunshine 

compared 

[  I    I  2 


The    Mother- Artist 

compared  with  the  husband's  love  for  the 
wife  when  she  is  to  become  or  has  become  a 
mother. 

Are  all  these  gifts  to  be  regarded  as  nothing 
to  a  woman,  or  taken  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  not  to  be  cherished  and  so  made  a  power 
in  your  own  doing  of  your  part?  Do  you 
not  know,  little  woman,  wrapped  as  you  are 
within  the  warmth  which  all  of  husband's  care 
and  love  can  give  you,  and  all  that  which 
comes  from  all  your  children,  protected, 
sheltered,  from  the  chills  that  reach  those  who 
have  no  one  they  may  call  their  own  in  any 
special  sense, — can  you  not  see  that  women 
without  marriage  never  have  the  strengthen- 
ing for  their  weariness  that  you  may  have,  if 
you  will  take  it,  from  these  daily  gifts  of  love 
and  trust  and  appreciation  and  companion- 
ship ?  Should  not  these  go  for  something 
toward  counteracting  the  fatigue,  so  that  at 
least  you  should  not  regard  your  motherhood 
as  more  a  weary  round  than  single  life  ? 


113] 


J 


The  Mother-Artist 

IX.     Limited  Means 

"  Mamma,  are  we  poor?  "  asked  the  child,  gazing 
with  new-awakened  thought  upon  the  modest  beauty  of 
the  little  home 

''''No,  dear,''  the  mother  answered,  "  for  lue  have 
everything  we  need  " 


The  Mother-Artist 

IX.    Limited  Means 

YOU  think  that  if  you  had  larger  means 
you  could  do  more  for  your  children, 
and  with  less  weariness  to  yourself. 
One  of  your  anxieties  for  them  comes  from 
the  inability  to  get  all  that  you  think  they 
need  which  only  money  can  command.  You 
are  right  to  an  extent  in  your  main  thought 
that  money  is  necessary  to  the  best  growth, 
but  wrong  in  your  estimate  of  the  amount  it 
takes  to  gain  that  end.  You  must  have 
money  to  supply  them  with  the  material 
things  needful  to  their  highest  growth. 
IMaterials  are  the  tools  with  which  we  work; 
and  other  things  the  same — the  finer  tools  the 
finer  workmanship.  Moreover,  the  tools 
need  ornamentation  ;  for  a  part  of  this  same 

growth 


The    Mother- Artist 

growth  is  that  in  knowing  the  value  of  the 
beautiful.  Recreations  also  should  have  full 
place,  for  they  give  exercise  to  powers  that 
are  idle  when  one  works.  The  dance,  for  in- 
stance, brings  into  play  some  muscles  which 
are  not  called  upon  by  any  kind  of  toil ;  and 
much  more,  rouses  joyous  spirits  such  as 
work,  nor  study,  nor  even  mental  fun  can 
waken.  What  pity  there  is  not  more  danc- 
ing,— informal,  and  in  every-day  attire,  with 
early  hours, — and  that  it  is  left  so  wholly  to 
the  children  and  the  young  folks  !  This 
sombre  corner  of  our  world  would  be  a  place 
more  inspiring  to  the  highest  human  hfe  if 
adults  never  left  off  dancing  until  because 
they  must  from  weakening  of  the  body,  in- 
stead of  because  they  have  lived  for  twenty 
and  a  few  odd  years.  One's  thoughtful  adult 
life  needs  freshening  every  little  while,  as 
much  as  that  of  younger  people ;  and  this 
cannot  be  gained  in  fullness  except  by  letting 
be  quiescent,  at  needed  intervals,  that  portion 
of  the  brain  which  thinks  and  plans,  and  giv- 
ing rein  to  that  other  part  possible  to  be  ex- 
hilarated 

[  I   I  8 


The    Mother- Artist 

hilarated  only  by  joyous  movements  of  the 
body. 

A  comfortable  amount  of  money  is  needed 
for  getting  much  of  the  beautiful  and  the  rec- 
reative ;  but  you  mistake  when  you  suppose 
that  this  demands  great  fortune.  The  differ- 
ence in  the  good  things  that  one  can  get  with 
a  large  income  more  than  with  moderate 
means  is  difference,  mostly,  in  costliness  and 
superabundance.  A  thing  in  plain  fashion 
often  gives  the  same  return  in  all  that  is  of 
value,  as  the  expensive,  and  oftener  than  not 
a  healthier  one.  In  a  carriage  from  the  stable 
you  have  all  the  comfort,  the  same  scenery, 
and  fun  far  beyond  that  Mrs.  Lofty  can  se- 
cure within  her  wealth-bound  equipage.  Your 
children  have  not  all  attended  dancing-school^ 
but  those  who  have,  have  taught  the  rest ;  and 
the  home  dancing,  with  their  little  mates  called 
in  to  join,  is  one  of  the  enjoyments  the  most 
highly  prized  within  your  children's  circle. 
The  teaching  of  the  younger  by  the  elder 
was  the  beginning  of  all  those  gay  times. 
They  have  gained,  not  lost,  by  your  finding 

it 


I  I 


9] 


The    H  other- Artist 

it  extravagant,  in  your  circumstances,  to  afford 
the  lessons  for  the  little  ones.  Your  furni- 
ture is  of  refined  taste,  and  not  too  good  to 
use ;  the  family  clothing  is  comely,  and  not 
too  good  to  wear  ;  which  means  that  furniture 
and  clothes  are  suitable  for  fun  and  frolic,  and 
can,  if  injured,  be  easily  replaced  without  un- 
due strain  upon  the  family  purse.  What 
better  could  a  great  fortune  give  you  ?  The 
stiffnesses  and  restrictions  which  large  wealth 
Inevitably  brings  when  it  is  used  for  things 
needed  in  common  life  which  must  be  "  kept 
nice,"  and  for  doing  things  that  society  says 
must  be  done,  hamper  the  growth  of  child- 
hood and  cramp  the  life.  This  cramping, 
like  that  of  Chinese  women's  feet,  lasts  alwavs 
to  the  end  of  earthly  days.  You  have,  ex- 
cept in  those  few  years  of  special  struggle  in 
Fred's  business,  had  everything  that  one  could 
need  for  free  and  healthful  growing  of  your 
children. 

But  you  are  right  that  sufficient  means  are 
necessary  to  the  highest  life.  They  are  the 
natural  right  of  every  man  and  woman  and 

chUd. 

[120 


The    N other- Artist 

child.  That  the  economic  system  is  in  such 
condition  as  to  bring  poverty  to  any  willing 
worker  in  a  world  full  of  resources,  where 
every  person's  healthful  needs  demand  more 
labor  than  he  can  do  himself,  consequently 
where  labor  is  by  right  abundant,  shows  that 
the  poverty  is  clearly  the  measure  of  man's 
ignorance  in  knowing  how  to  work  the  system. 
Poverty  is  a  race  crime,  and  will  be  seen,  re- 
pented of,  and  put  away  in  time.  A  person 
may  grow  spiritually  in  spite  of  it,  but  not  be- 
cause of  it,  as  an  abnormal  piety  has  been  so 
fond  of  preaching.  Just  as  truly  also  are 
poverty's  accompaniment,  enormous  fortunes, 
a  hindrance.  The  possessor  of  one  of  these 
is  either  burdened  by  it  with  unnatural 
responsibility  for  using  it  wisely,  or  he  is 
enervated  or  ruined  by  yielding  to  its  allur- 
ments  to  a  merely  pleasure-seeking  life.  You 
have  had  neither  stunting  poverty  nor  un- 
healthful  wealth,  but  the  normal  medium  of 
comfortable  circumstances. 

And   even    less    easy    circumstances    than 
yours    have  been  in  general,  did  not  bring 

loss. 

I    2    I   ] 


The    N other- Artist 

loss.  You  have  not  valued  at  their  highest 
worth  those  years  when  business  difficulties 
of  your  husband  made  it  best  for  you  to  do 
without  a  servant.  You  mourned  because 
you  could  not  "  do  more"  for  your  children  ; 
you  could  not  pay  for  their  tuition  in  a 
private  school.  Why,  you  were  giving  them 
an  education  in  your  home  such  as  every 
good  private  school  now  makes  an  essential 
of  their  system, — a  training  in  industrial 
work ;  and  yours  was  real,  while  that  of 
schools  is  only  practice.  Your  tiny  ones 
were  in  the  kindergarten  of  real  life.  You 
could  not  have  secured  for  them  anything 
better  at  a  thousand  dollars  a  year.  Have 
you  forgotten  how  skillful  they  became  in 
many  kinds  of  handiwork  ?  Even  little 
Betty,  only  two  years  old,  would  beg  a  piece 
of  dough  when  you  were  molding  biscuit, 
and  seated  on  the  rug,  would  make  one 
looking  much  like  yours.  It  was,  to  be 
sure,  some  few  shades  darker,  with  a  non- 
practical  grayness  from  her  grimy  little  hands; 
but  that  was  no   hindrance   to  her  learning 

the 

[  I  2  2 


I'he    ?I  other-  Artist 

the  art  of  molding  and  of  molding  biscuit; 
the  griminess  dropped  off  in  time  with  other 
baby  things.  Fanny,  three  years  older, 
accomplished  some  neat  sewing  in  her  small 
way.  Do  you  not  see  how  wasteful  was 
your  unhappiness  that  you  could  not  afford 
the  kindergarten  for  them  ?  And  they 
learned  much  besides.  You  have  often 
spoken  of  their  self-helpfulness  in  those  few 
years,  and  their  love  for  helping  mamma 
and  saving  mamma  work.  You  have  seen 
that  those  years  were  fruitful  to  them  in 
conscious  happiness  of  mutual  service.  How 
much  of  weariness  you  would  have  saved 
yourself  if  you  could  have  lived  in  the  in- 
creasingly stimulating  delight,  to  them  and 
yourself,  of  knowing  that  they  were  gaining 
rather  than  losing  in  all  that  you  imagined 
you  could   not  afford  to  give  them. 

In  this  life  with  your  children,  rich  with  the 
deepest  growth  for  your  intellect  and  heart, 
you  have  been  losing  joy  and  growth  as  well, 
because  you  have  been  dwelling  in  the  dark- 
ness.    On  that  side  of  life  self-pity  abides, 

and 

123] 


The    ?I  other-  Artist 

and  you  have  made  of  her  a  boon  companion. 
Sometimes  she  has  told  you  that  you  were 
only  a  servant  and  a  nursery  maid  ;  in  your 
best  moods  she  has  convinced  you  that  you 
were  a  poor  man's  wife  because  you  had  not 
millions.  In  a  way,  In  spite  of  her  mispre- 
sentments,  you  have  been  brave.  You  would 
not  pain  your  husband  by  laying  bare  to  him 
the  depths  of  your  depression,  and  you  have 
talked  cheerily  to  your  children  of  the  beauty 
of  home-making.  But  underneath  you  recog- 
nized always  your  beautiful  martyrdom,  and 
cultivated  a  not  small  admiration  for  yourself 
in  bearing  it  so  uncomplainingly.  You  have 
succeeded,  too,  in  arousing  in  your  husband 
and  your  children  this  morbid  admiration  for 
yourself.  Believe  me,  you  are  a  loser  by  it, 
infinitely.  A  healthy,  joyous,  care-free  spirit 
would  awaken  an  unspeakably  greater  depth 
of  the  true  tenderness  than  can  this  burden- 
some pity  they  are  taught  it  is  their  duty  to 
feel  for  you.  Can  pitv  from  a  sense  of  duty 
satisfy  your  longing  for  love  from  them  as 
would  spontaneous  affection  and  admiration 
for  your  healthy-growing  character? 

Turn 
[124 


The     Hother- Artist 

Turn  around  and  face  the  light,  dear  little 
woman.  Remember  the  fatigue  of  that  fine 
musician  who  spends  long  hours  daily  at 
her  piano.  Her  weariness  has  always  in  it 
the  air  of  being  worth  while.  Why  should 
not  yours  ?  The  mother  acts  upon  fresh, 
living  nature  instead  of  pounding  upon  ivory 
keys;  for  even  her  material  duties  have  in 
them,  as  the  real  thing  worked  upon,  the 
growing  soul  of  her  God-given  child.  The 
music  she  calls  forth  is  finer  than  that  of  the 
pianist,  by  just  so  much  as  the  God-fashioned 
handiwork  is  finer  than  dead  metal  strings. 
So  your  own  fatigue  may  be  finer,  purer 
from  what  drags  down  and  wears  out  mind 
and  body,  than  that  of  any  other  artist  in 
the  world. 


M] 


The  Mother-Artist 

X.     Qain  and  More  Qain 

JVhy  strive  so  painfully  for  what  you  gain  of  life, 
When  you  may  have  the  whole  for  the  mere  asking^ 


The  Mother- Artist 

X.     Qain  and  More  Qain 

YOUR  discontent  has  not  been  wholly 
loss.  It  is  less  bad  than  settling  down 
in  satisfaction  with  your  own  small 
interests.  No  person  is  made  to  live  for 
self,  no  family  any  more  than  individuals. 
As  long  as  you  were  blinded  to  the  larger 
life  you  might  be  leading,  it  was  better  to  be 
discontented  with  the  thought  of  living  for 
the  home  alone.  If  you  could  not  see  how 
to  make  the  family  life  stretch  out  to  touch 
all  the  world  beyond,  then  it  were  better  you 
should  strive  to  bring  the  world  to  it,  and 
even  grieve  because  you  could  not  reach 
more  of  it  to  fetch  within  your  home.  For 
thus  you  have  prevented  your  children's 
growth    into    the    false  notion  that,  because 

the 

129] 


The     Tiother- Artist 

the  home  is  dear,  the  rest  of  the  world  exists 
for  the  sole  purpose  of  administering  to  it^ 
instead  of  the  true  order  of  its  becoming  a 
ministering  portion  to  the  rest,  reciprocally, 
for  service  received.  Your  very  longing  for 
a  larger  life  has  kept  your  children  warm  in 
social  sympathies  and  interest  in  all  the  vari- 
ous interests  of  the  great  world,  of  which 
they  could  get  some  childish  comprehension. 
Your  discontent  has  rescued  you  and  them 
from  several  of  the  smaller  kinds  of  narrow- 
ness. You  have  been  larger  than  you  would 
have  been  without  it.  But  there  is  a  still 
larger  life  for  you  and  yours  than  this.  We 
cannot  bring  the  world  successfully  within 
our  doors ;  it  always  is  diminished  when  we 
try  to.  We  may,  though,  grow  ourselves 
so  large  that  we  can  touch  the  boundaries 
of  the  universe.  And  this  is  not  done,  as 
you  have  mistakenly  supposed,  by  spending 
a  very  large  part  of  one's  time  outside  the 
home,  but  by  cherishing  at  all  times,  whether 
within  or  outside  of  one's  own  doors,  large 
thoughts  and  understanding  of  what  life  may 

mean. 
[130 


The    Hother-Artist 

mean.    You  showed  this  larger  thought  when 
you  were  not  content  to  answer  Donald  that 
his  father's  business  was  merely   the  means 
of  money-making  for  the  family.     Your  in- 
stinct,   immediately,  was    to    point   out    his 
father's  life  to  him  as  worthy  the  devotion 
of  a  man  of  dignified  and  noble  character 
such  as   you    knew  Fred  to  be.     And  this 
impulse  revealed  to  you  the  need  of  an  in- 
dustrial system  worthy,  inherently,  of  all  the 
best  in  its  best  men.     The  largeness  of  your 
thought  saved   you   from   belittling,  in  this 
regard,  the  family  life.     It  made  the  family  life 
stretch  far  away  from  its  own  personal  limits 
to  become  a  part  of  the  great  world's  dignity. 
And  so  with  many  other  things  that  you 
have  told  your  children,  you   have  sought 
out  the  whole,  of  which  the  case  in  question 
was  a  part.     Principally,  your  narrowness  has 
been  in  one  direction, — in  looking  on  your 
motherhood    as,    at    its   best,    something    of 
slavery.      In  this  portion   of  your   life   you 
have  cramped   yourself  and   all   your  dear 
ones  within  the  limits  of  a  self-pitying  per- 
sonality. 

131] 


The     Tlother- Artist 

sonality.  This  may  have  roused  in  them  a 
love  for  you,  but  there  can  be  a  healthier 
love  awakened  in  them,  just  as  warm  and 
true,  without  the  morbidness.  It  is  not 
your  fault  wholly  that  you  have  made  this 
mistake.  You  have  simply  yielded  to  the 
spirit  of  the  times,  which,  while  it  preaches 
breadth  of  life  for  woman,  too  often  looks 
pityingly  upon  the  narrowness  of  what  will 
always  be  her  crowning  glory,  and  may  be 
a  more  satisfying  delight,  constantly,  than 
women  as  a  rule  have  made  it.  The  large- 
ness of  the  outlook  of  the  modern  day  has 
not  yet  come  to  its  full  size,  large  as  it  is. 
It  still  regards  the  mother  as  a  slave  if  she 
has  more  than  three  children  at  the  very 
most.  It  has  much  to  say  about  not  having 
more  than  one  can  care  for  well.  This 
would  be  good  common  sense  if  one  point 
were  not  almost  invariably  overlooked, 
which  is  the  inestimable  education  that  the 
children  give  each  other,  the  loss  of  which 
no  adult  can  any  more  compensate  them  for 
than  they  can  compensate  each  other  for  the 
loss  of  father  and  of  mother. 

The 
[132 


The     Tiother- Artist 

The  teaching  about  the  larger  life  of 
women  will  never  be  as  large  as  possible 
until  it  shows  that  the  mother  is  not  the 
slave,  but  only  the  hard-working  artist. 
Here  you,  little  mother,  have  a  noble  work 
which  you  can  do.  One  woman  like  your- 
self may  help  to  free  numbers  of  mothers 
from  the  slavery  of  motherhood,  and  to  in- 
stall them  in  their  rightful  places  as  honored 
workers  in  the  greatest  of  the  arts.  If  you 
see  the  true  nature  of  your  work  you  can 
take  your  stand,  and  by  that  alone  you  will 
reclaim  many  of  your  sisters  from  their  self- 
imposed  slavery.  Claim  your  own  position, 
and  nothing  more  is  needed  of  you  to  help 
to  raise  others  now  toiling  in  the  dust  to 
their  true  dignity  as  artists  of  the  world. 


"^ZZ^ 


The  Mother-Artist 

XL     A  Protest  and  the  Answer 

\ 

7he  angel  still,  within  your  child,  pleads  for  com- 
panionship; 

For  that  angelic  comrade  and  yourself 

May  master  deadening  wants,  and  fashion  from  your 
cares 

Rare  forms  of  living  beauty 


The  Mother-Artist 

XL    A  Protest  and  the  Answer 

THE    MOTHER    SPEAKS 

I  HAVE  listened  amazed  to  all  this  that 
you  have  been  saying.  I  never  have  been 
such  a  wonderful  mother  as  you  represent 
me.  The  experiences  which  you  have  re- 
called are  most  true,  to  be  sure,  but  they  were 
mere  incidents,  not  anything  more  than  that. 
I  have  always  tried  to  be  faithful,  and  bring 
up  my  children  as  well  as  I  knew  how  to  do. 
And  they  are  good  children  ;  you  have  made 
no  mistake  about  that.  But  I  seem  to  have 
had  very  little  to  do  with  their  being  so.  I 
know  that  the  love  they  have  brought  and 
have  wakened  in  me  has  been  very  beautiful. 
I  know,  as  you  say,  that  all  my  intellect  has 
been  demanded  and  strengthened  in  meeting 
their  questions.      But  oh  !    how  far  short    I 

have 

I  3  7] 


The    Hother- Artist 

have  fallen  of  what  I  have  wanted  to  do  for 
them !  I  never  had  time  to  give  them  really 
the  instruction  I  longed  to  give  them.  No 
doubt  1  have  grown  in  trying  to  guide  them 
in  growing ;  but  I  could  have  grown  so 
much  more  if  I  could  have  had  the  time 
needed  to  train  them  more  carefully.  I  see, 
too,  what  you  say  of  the  babies  as  being  my 
teachers.  I  have  said  something  like  this  to 
Fred  very  often  ;  but  the  form  which  it  took 
in  my  mind  was  that  in  trying  to  teach  them 
I  learned  for  myself.  This  is  true,  but  as 
you  say,  the  greatest  gain  to  me  was  from  the 
lighting  up  of  my  thoughts  by  their  inno- 
cence, which  showed  me  either  the  great  or 
the  little  worth  of  them. 

No  doubt  what  you  say  of  disorder  and 
care  and  small  income  may  be  so.  But,  es- 
pecially regarding  the  income,  a  mother  must 
want  to  provide  for  her  children  as  others 
do.  No  mother  is  willing  to  have  other 
women  surpass  her  in  what  she  can  give  to 
her  children  of  comfort  and  pleasure  and 
learning  of  all   kinds.     And    1   will   confess 

even 

[138 


The   Ti  other-  Arti  St 

even  more — the  style  of  one's  living  does 
seem  of  some  moment  when  the  welfare  of 
children  depends  on  it.  Any  mother  desires 
that  her  own  shall  have  their  surroundings  as 
good  as  their  playmates  can  have.  This  is 
no  more  than  human,  and  if  it  is  wrong  I 
can't  help  it.  We  all  of  us  turn  out  the 
devil,  I  think,  from  our  motives  and  acts 
when  we  find  he  is  in  them ;  but  a  little  of 
the  world  and  the  flesh  we  must  have  as  long 
as  we  live  in  the  body.  We  must  care  that 
our  children  shall  be  dressed  becomingly, 
and  that  they  shall  have  some  of  the  lux- 
uries, and  that  they  shall  be  kept  in  freedom 
from  arduous  drudgery. 

You  say  I  have  pitied  myself;  yes,  I  have, 
I  acknowledge.  I  have  thought  it  was  hard 
that  I  could  not  have  time  for  self-culture, 
which  would  benefit  not  only  myself  but  the 
children.  All  this  education  which  you  say 
I  have  given  them  has  been  incidental  and 
scrappy.  I  never  have  seemed  to  be  doing 
for  them  what  was  of  very  much  value.  I 
have  tried   to   teach   them  good   principles, 

and 

139] 


The    ?lother- Artist 

and  to  answer  their  questions  with  real  in- 
formation, and  show  them  the  genuine  phil- 
osophy of  life  as  far  as  I  knew  it,  and  to 
impress  upon  them  if  I  could  that  true  phil- 
osophy is  also  religion;  but  I  had  not  the 
time  to  make  this  the  real  life  I  was  leading, 
as  you  have  implied  that  I  did.  My  real 
life  has  been  in  the  caring,  first  of  all,  for 
their  bodies.  And  oh!  how  it  tired  me,  es- 
pecially with  the  boys,  when  such  care  was 
all  new!  It  was  not  so  hard  with  the  oth- 
ers, though  always  it  took  every  power  that 
I  had,  both  physical  and  mental.  I  used  to 
feel  sometimes  that  I  could  not  bear  the 
fatigue  any  longer.  I  even  have  wished  I 
could  lie  down  and  die  rather  than  go  on 
with  it.  But  in  some  way  I  always  got 
through  it;  and  I  cannot  in  honesty  say  that 
my  health  on  the  whole  has  been  worse  for 
it.  At  present  I  could  not  make  plea  as  an 
invalid,  for  there  are  not  many  women  as 
well  as  I  am. 

But  in  all  of  the  way  there  has  been  more 
of  care  for  the  bodies  than  even  for  the  souls 

of 

[140 


The    Hother- Artist 

of  the  children.  How  could  I  help  it? 
The  endless  number  of  shoes  and  stockings 
to  be  bought  and  kept  whole,  the  under  and 
outer  wear  for  them  all,  the  constant  renew- 
ing demanded  by  their  constant  growing,  and 
all  to  be  done  in  the  most  economical  fashion 
— how  can  even  the  growth  of  their  souls  be 
more  than  secondary,  when  all  these  must  be 
attended  to  before  anything  else  ?  And  con- 
stantly accidents  to  some  of  the  clothing,  the 
tearing  and  spoiling  in  one  way  or  another, 
keep  the  wardrobes  in  endless  unfinish.  The 
mere  daily  task  of  getting  them  off  to  school 
in  the  morning  is  not  a  small  thing.  And 
this  is  not  always  a  purely  mechanical  process, 
consisting  of  finding  stray  caps,  gloves  and 
books,  and  other  of  their  special  possessions, 
and  seeing  them  fitted  to  the  heads  and  the 
hands  they  belong  to  ;  if  this  were  all,  it 
might  not  be  so  fatiguing  to  body  and  spirit. 
But  though  my  children,  as  you  have  said, 
are  good  children,  and  my  husband  as  noble 
a  man  as  is  living — God  bless  him — still  no 
one  of  them  yet  is  an  angel,  and  no  more  am 

I; 

I  4  I  ] 


The    Nother- Artist 

I ;  and  when  on  some  morning  especially 
crowded,  Donald's  stubbornness,  Tom's  fiery 
temper,  Fanny's  vixenish  love  of  teasing  her 
brothers,  little  Betty's  imperiousness,  and 
baby's  three-year-old  babyishness  all  turn  on 
each  other  and  form  themselves  into  a  whirl- 
wind, and  Fred  stalks  around  the  house  like 
some  baffled  giant  (his  stalkings  would  not 
be  quite  so  disturbing  if  he  was  not  so  big), 
wishing  Mary  would  let  his  desk  alone  when 
she  is  cleaning  his  study,  and  my  own  not 
large  patience  gives  way  in  the  general  hub- 
bub,— why  the  family  atmosphere  loses  the 
serenity  you  have  implied  that  it  had,  as  of 
heaven,  and  seems  to  my  senses  more  like 
some  other  place  considerably  different. 

Then  when  they  are  gone  the  baby  must 
be  sent  out  for  her  airing,  and  when  she 
comes  in  there  is  more  or  less  care  of  her 
constantly.  Then  the  forenoon  is  gone,  and 
the  children  come  home  from  their  schools, 
hungry,  and  perhaps  ragged  and  dirty ;  and 
the  afternoon  is  spent  in  mending  of  mittens, 
or  coat,  or  torn  frock;  or  at  the  dentist's  or 

dancing-school. 

[142 


The    Tlother- Artist 

dancing-school.  Without  any  warning,  too, 
come  the  sicknesses,  little  and  big,  the  un- 
restful  nights  and  tired-out  days  with  whoop- 
ing-cough, chicken-pox,  and  the  measles. 
How  can  it  be  thought  that  a  mother  is  doing 
the  work  for  her  children  which  you  have 
ideally  pictured,  when  really  her  life  is  one 
long  course  in  not  much  more  than  physical 
duties  ? 

But  if  I  could  have  got  through  even  with 
these  with  a  constant  sense  of  love  to  my 
children,  I  should  not  appear  to  myself  the 
failure  I  am.  Instead  I  have  oftentimes  felt 
so  overburdened,  so  crowded  and  pressed  and 
bewildered,  that  my  heart  seemed  to  turn 
to  stone  toward  them  and  my  husband.  God 
forgive  me !  I  have  felt  at  such  moments 
as  if  I  never  had  loved  them,  nor  ever  should 
love  them ;  all  I  longed  for  was  just  to  get 
off  by  myself  in  some  corner  and  rest.  You 
did  not  know  that  I  had  been  wicked  like 
this,  or  you  would  never  have  said  all  the 
flattering  things  that  you  have  of  me.  In 
spite  of  it  all,  my  husband  and  children  do 

love 

143] 


I'he     Mother  -  Artist 

love  me  devotedly;  but  that  is  because  they 
are  themselves  so  loving  and  kind,  and  do  not 
know  me  as  I  really  am. 

But  you  see  that  what  you  have  told  of 
me  is  wholly  ideal.  It  does  not  describe  a 
mother  like  me.  A  woman  might  have  such 
a  life  who  had  always  been  rich  and  had 
brought  up  her  children  without  any  struggle, 
but  not  one  with  a  moderate  income  like 
ours. 

THE    ANSWER 

My  picture  is  of  one  side  of  your  life,  and 
yours  is  of  the  other.  Mine  is  as  true  as 
yours;  you  have  acknowledged  it.  Your 
error  is  in  this — you  look  upon  the  hard, 
external  part  as  the  important,  and  think  of 
the  real  things  as  incidental.  Reverse  the 
two,  and  you  will  understand  the  true  delight 
of  the  hard-working  artist. 

You  cannot,  do  you  say?     If  you  should 
try  it,  month  by  month,  and  year  by  year, 
success  would  come  to  you  in  time. 
Because : — 

Your  dark  and  desperate  feelings  are  not 
those    of  motherhood    alone.       Every    soul 

that 
[  I  44 


The    Hother- Artist 

that  grows  to  anything  more  than  the  mere 
external  man  or  woman  experiences  the 
same.  Your  husband,  when  the  stress  of 
business  strains  his  every  nerve,  and  failure 
seems  to  stare  him  in  the  face,  has  just  such 
cold  and  loveless  feelings  as  yourself.  There 
is  no  man  whose  character  is  growing  but 
has  encountered  some  form  of  these  desper- 
ate states,  even  to  a  degree  which  seems  to 
him  at  times  completely  hopeless  in  its  enor- 
mity. All  women  struggle  with  the  same 
kind  of  unhappiness,  the  rich  and  poor,  the 
married  and  the  single.  The  wealthy  mother 
is  often  brought  into  the  torture  of  despair 
when  she  first  realizes  the  snares  with  which 
her  wealth  surrounds  her  children;  the  rich 
woman,  unmarried,  is  desperate  because  her 
life  is  proving  nothing  but  a  failure,  when 
she  discovers  that  with  money  and  abundant 
leisure  she  can  make  no  visible  impression 
on  the  evils  of  the  world,  which  bring  its 
untold  horrors  of  the  present,  and  threaten  to 
destroy  its  future  welfare.  The  wage-earner, 
single,  when  these  states  are  upon  her,  feels 

herself 

145] 


The    Jiother- Artist 

herself  a  drudge  and  nothing  more,  for  her 
whole  lifetime;  and  one  cause  of  these  dark 
moods  in  single  women  and  childless  wives 
is,  whether  they  know  of  it  or  not,  that  most 
of  them  are  hungry  for  the  love  of  little 
ones  they  never  will  be  blessed  with  as  their 
own — for  the  giving  forth  their  mothering 
service,  which  belongs  by  natural  right  to 
every  woman  to  do.  Your  especial  trials  are 
from  the  abundance  of  your  blessings;  those 
of  the  childless,  from  the  deprivation  of 
them.  Which  is  the  most  easily  curable, 
think  you? 
And  because : — 

The  whirlwinds  you  describe,  if  wisely 
thought  about,  are  not  the  injury  that  they 
seem  to  be.  They  furnish  you  examples 
of  the  evil  that  might  be  if  all  of  you  in- 
dulged in  freedom  in  such  tempers.  They 
are  the  means  by  which  the  children  may 
know  something  of  the  evils  which  make 
havoc  with  the  world.  Some  knowledge 
of  these  evils  is  most  necessary  to  every 
person,  for  without  knowing  of  their  nature 

one 

[146 


The    '?lother-A,rtist 

one  could  never  work  to  do  his  part  in 
overcoming  them  in  the  communal  life. 
Neither  are  your  states  of  coldness  harm- 
ful to  your  children,  as  you  suppose.  They 
come  either  from  your  physical  fatigue  or 
are,  as  has  just  been  said,  the  effect  of  spir- 
itual struggles  into  higher  life.  Such  striv- 
ings are  the  means  of  final  good  to  all ;  the 
temporary  darkness  and  despair  are  only 
shadows,  and  make  no  real  impression  on 
your  loved  ones. 
And  because : — 

Your  longing  for  the  time  to  give  them 
more  instruction,  and  for  your  own  better 
growing,  is  an  error.  You  are  mistaken  as 
to  the  nature  of  human  growing  when  you 
think  this.  No  growth  can  be  so  healthy 
for  one's  self,  and  so  large,  as  that  gained 
by  the  skillful  hands  when  guided  by  the 
skillful  brain ;  and  this  your  work  has  been. 
And  for  the  verbal  teaching  of  your  children 
which  I  have  shown  you  that  you  did,  and 
you  have  said  my  words  are  true,  no  basis 
could  be  so  solid  and  so  sure  as  this  same 

busy 
147] 


The   N other- Artist 

busy  life  you  have  been  leading.  Rest- 
ing on  that,  your  words  all  have  a  meaning 
which  words  without  deeds  never  can  ex- 
press. What  you  call  "  scrappiness  "  is  some- 
thing the  very  opposite  of  what  that  word 
implies.  It  is  the  leading  of  your  children's 
minds  by  God  himself,  which  impels  them 
to  ask  about  one  thing  at  one  moment  and 
another  at  the  next.  God  has  not  bound 
life  into  volumes  of  history,  science,  and 
religion.  He  makes  the  mind  open  and 
ready  for  all  learning,  and  your  children's 
questions  are  from  the  exercise  of  their  God- 
fashioned  souls.  The  schools  have  had  too 
much  of  the  man-made  "system  of  instruc- 
tion."    God  save  the  homes  from  it! 

Live  in  the  real  things  as  your  real  life, 
and  in  your  thoughts  and  feelings  make  the 
buying  of  the  shoes,  however  much  there 
is,  the  incidental.  If  you  feel  sure  that  this 
cannot  be  done,  prove  by  the  trying,  faith- 
fully and  long,  whether  or  not  this  is  only  a 
visionary  dream. 


[148 


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